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CRITICAL,  HISTORICAL, 


a m> 

MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS 
AND  POEMS. 


BY 

THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY.  H 


VOLUME  II. 


CHICAGO: 

DONOHUE.  HENNEBERRY  4 CO, 
PUBLISHERS. 


fCS'STOS 


, M \ \1  ■ 


PRINTED  AND  BQUND  BY 

O-ONPuite  A Menneberry, 

CHICAGO. 


CONTENTS 


PAM 

Horace  Walpole  (. 'Edinburgh  Review,  October  1833.)  7 

William  Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham  (. Edinburgh  Review , 
January  1834.)  ...  e ....  43 

Sir  James  Mackintosh  (Edinburgh  Review,  July  1835.)  83 

Lord  Bacon  (Edinburgh  Review,  July,  1837.)  . . 142 

Sir  William  Temple  (Edinburgh  Review , October, 

1838.) 255 

Gladstone  on  Church  and  State  (Edinburgh  Re- 
view, April,  1839.) 335 

Lord  Clive  (Edinburgh  Review,  January,  1840.) . . 390 

Von  Ranke  (Edinburgh  Review,  October,  1840.)  . • 464 

Leigh  Hunt  (Edinburgh  Review,  January,  1841.) . . 500 

Lord  Holland  (Edinburgh  Review,  July,  1841.)  . . 544 

Warren  Hastings  (Edinburgh  Review,  October,  1841.)  554 
Frederic  the  Great  (Edinburgh  Review,  April,  1842.)  657 
Madame  D’Arblay  (Edinburgh  Review,  January,  1843.)  728 
The  Present  Administration  (Edinburgh  Review , 

June,  1827.)  . 789 

Speech  (March  21,  1849.) 804 

Speech  (March  22,  1849.)  • • . 9 9 9 • 819 


MACAULAY’S 

MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS 


ESSAYS. 


HORACE  WALPOLE  * 

( Edinburgh  Review , October , 1833.) 

We  cannot  transcribe  this  title  page  without  strwg  feel- 
ings of  regret.  The  editing  of  these  volumes  was  the  hast  of 
the  useful  and  modest  services  rendered  to  literature  by  a 
nobleman  of  amiable  manners,  of  untarnished  public  and 
private  character,  and  of  cultivated  mind.  On  this,  as  on 
other  occasions,  Lord  Dover  performed  his  part  diligently, 
judiciously,  and  without  the  slightest  ostentation.  He  had 
two  merits  which  are  rarely  found  together  in  a commentator. 
He  was  content  to  be  merely  a commentator,  to  keep  in  the 
background,  and  to  leave  the  foreground  to  the  author  whom 
he  had  undertaken  to  illustrate.  Yet,  though  willing  to  be 
an  attendant,  he  was  by  no  means  a slave ; nor  did  he  con- 
sider it  as  part  of  his  duty  to  see  no  faults  in  the  writer  to 
whom  he  faithfully  and  assiduously  rendered  the  humblest 
literary  offices. 

The  faults  of  Horace  Walpole’s  head  and  heart  are  indeed 
sufficiently  glaring.  His  writings,  it  is  true,  rank  as  high 

* Letters  of  Horace  Walpole , Ea/rl  of  Oxford t to  Sir  Horace  Mann . British 
Envoy  at  the  Court  of  Tuscany.  Now  first  published  from  the  Originals  i»  the 
Possession  of  the  Earl  of  Waldgravb  Edited  by  Lobh  Doyeb.  2 yoU 
London  - 1633, 


8 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


among  the  delicacies  of  intellectual  epicures  as  the  Strasburg 
pies  among  the  dishes  described  in  the  Almanack  des  Gour- 
mands. But  as  th z pdte-de-foie-gras  owes  its  excellence  to 
the  diseases  of  the  wretched  animal  which  furnishes  it,  and 
would  be  good  for  nothing  if  it  were  not  made  of  livers  pre- 
terntjurally  swollen,  so  none  but  an  unhealthy  and  disor- 
ganized mind  would  have  produced  such  literary  luxuries  as 
the  works  of  W alpole. 

He  was,  unless  we  have  formed  a very  erroneous  judgment 
of  his  character,  the  most  eccentric,  the  most  artificial,  the 
most  fastidious,  the  most  capricious  of  men.  His  mind  was 
a bundle  of  inconsistent  whims  and  affectations.  His  features 
were  covered  by  mask  within  mask.  When  the  outer  dis- 
guise of  obvious  affectation  was  removed,  you  w^ere  still  as 
far  as  ever  from  seeing  the  real  man.  He  played  innumer- 
able parts,  and  over-acted  them  all.  When  he  talked  mis- 
anthrophy,  he  out-Timoned  Timon.  When  he  talked  phil- 
anthropy, he  left  Howard  at  an  immeasurable  distance.  He 
scoffed  at  courts,  and  kept  a chronicle  of  their  most  trifling 
scandal ; at  society,  and  was  blown  about  by  its  slightest 
veerings  of  opinion ; at  literary  fame,  and  left  fair  copies  of 
his  private  letters,  with  copious  notes,  to  be  published  after 
his  decease ; at  rank,  and  never  for  a moment  forget  that  he 
was  an  Honorable  ; at  the  practice  of  entail,  and  tasked  the 
ingenuity  of  conveyancers  to  tie  up  his  villa  in  the  strictest 
settlement. 

The  conformation  of  his  mind  was  such  that  whatever 
was  little  seemed  to  him  great,  and  whatever  was  great 
seemed  to  him  little.  Serious  business  was  a trifle  to  him, 
and  trifles  w~ere  his  serious  business.  To  chat  with  blue 
stockings,  to  write  little  copies  of  complimentary  verses  on 
little  occasions,  to  superintend  a private  press,  to  preserve 
from  natural  decay  the  perishable  topics  of  Ranelagh  and 
White’s,  to  record  divorces  and  bets,  Miss  Chudleigh’s 
absurdities  and  George  Selwyn’s  good  sayings,  to  decorate  a 
grotesque  house  with  pie-crust  battlements,  to  procure  rare 
engravings  and  antique  chimney-boards,  to  match  odd  gaunt- 
lets, to  lay  out  a maze  of  walks  within  five  acres  of  ground, 
these  were  the  grave  employments  of  his  long  life.  From 
these  he  turned  to  politics  as  to  an  amusement.  After  the 
labors  of  the  print-shop  and  the  auction-room  he  unbent  his 
mind  in  the  House  of  Commons.  And,  having  indulged  in 
the  recreation  of  making  laws  and  voting  millions,  he 
returned  to  more  important  pursuits*  to  researches  ufter 


HO&ACB  WAlWJ, 


Queen.  Mary’s  comb,  Wolsey’s  red  hat,  the  pipe  which  Van 
Tromp  smoked  during  his  last  sea-fight,  and  the  spur  which 
King  William  struck  into  the  flank  of  Sorrel. 

In  everything  in  which  Walpole  busied  himself,  in  the 
fine  arts,  in  literature,  in  public  affairs,  he  was  drawn  by 
some  strange  attraction  from  the  great  to  the  little,  and  from 
the  useful  to  the  odd.  The  politics  in  which  he  took  the 
keenest  interest,  were  politics  scarcely  deserving  of  the 
name.  The  growlings  of  George  the  Second,  the  flirtations 
of  Princess  Emily  with  the  Duke  of  Grafton,  the  amours 
of  Prince  Frederick  and  Lady  Middlesex,  the  squabbles  be- 
tween Gold  Stick  in  waiting  and  the  Master  of  the  Buck- 
hounds,  the  disagreements  between  the  tutors  of  Prince 
George,  these  matters  engaged  almost  all  the  attention 
which  W alpole  could  spare  from  matters  more  important 
still,  from  bidding  for  Zinckes  and  Petitots,  from  cheapen- 
ing fragments  of  tapestry  and  handles  of  old  lances,  from 
joining  bits  of  painted  glass,  and  from  setting  up  memorials 
of  departed  cats  and  dogs.  While  lie  was  fetching  and 
carrying  the  gossip  of  Kensington  Palace  and  Carlton 
House,  he  fancied  that  he  W'as  engaged  in  politics,  and  when 
he  recorded  that  gossip,  he  fancied  that  he  was  writing 
history. 

He  wTas,  as  he  has  himself  told  us,  fond  of  faction  as  an 
amusement.  He  loved  mischief : but  he  loved  quiet ; and 
he  was  constantly  on  the  watch  for  opportunities  of  gratify- 
ing both  his  tastes  at  once.  lie  sometimes  contrived,  with- 
out showing  himself,  to  disturb  the  course  of  ministerial 
negotiations  and  to  spread  confusion  through  the  political 
circles.  He  does  not  himself  pretend  that,  on  these  occa- 
sions, he  was  actuated  by  public  spirit ; nor  does  he  appear 
to  have  had  any  private  advantage  in  view.  He  thought  it 
a good  practical  joke  to  set  public  men  together  by  the 
ears;  and  he  enjoyed  their  perplexities,  their  accusations, 
and  their  recriminations,  as  a malicious  boy  enjoys  the  em- 
barrassment of  a misdirected  traveller. 

About  politics,  in  the  high  sense  of  the  word,  he  knew 
nothing,  a|id  cared  nothing.  lie  called  himself  a Whig. 
His  father’s  son  could  scarcely  assume  any  other  name.  It 
pleased  him  also  to  affect  a foolish  dislike  of  kings,  as  kings, 
and  a foolish  love  and  admiration  of  rebels  as  rebels  ; and  per- 
haps, while  kings  were  not  in  danger,  and  while  rebels  were  not 
in  being,  he  really  believed  that  he  held  the  doctrines  which 
he  professed.  To  go  no  further  than  the  letters  now  before 


10  MACAULAY^S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

ns,  he  is  perpetually  boasting  to  his  friend  Mann  of  his  aveiv 
eion  to  royalty  and  to  royal  persons.  He  calls  the  crime  of 
Damien  “ that  least  bad  of  murders,  the  murder  of  a king.” 
He  hung  up  in  his  villa  an  engraving  of  the  death-warrant 
of  Chailes,  with  the  inscription  “ Major  Charta .”  Yet  the 
most  superficial  knowledge  of  history  might  have  taught 
him  that  the  Restoration,  and  the  crimes  and  follies  of  the 
twenty-eight  years  which  followed  the  Restoration,  were 
the  effects  of  this  Great  Charter.  Nor  was  there  much  in 
the  means  by  which  that  instrument  was  obtained  that  could 
gratify  a judicious  lover  of  liberty.  A man  must  hate  kings 
very  bitterly,  before  he  can  think  it  desirable  that  the  rep- 
resentatives of  the  people  should  be  turned  out  of  doors  by 
dragoons,  in  order  to  get  at  a king’s  head.  Walpole’s 
Whiggism,  however,  was  of  a very  harmless  kind.  He  kept 
it,  as  he  kept  the  old  spears  and  helmets  at  Strawberry  Hill, 
merely  for  show.  He  would  just  as  soon  have  thought  of 
taking  down  the  arms  of  the  ancient  Templars  and  Hospi- 
tallers from  the  walls  of  his  hall,  and  setting  off  on  a cru- 
sade to  the  Holy  Land,  as  of  acting  in  the  spirit  of  those 
daring  warriors  and  statesmen,  great  even  in  their  errors, 
whose  names  and  seals  were  affixed  to  the  warrant  which 
he  prized  so  highly.  He  liked  revolution  and  regicide  only 
when  they  were  a hundred  years  old.  His  republicanism, 
like  the  courage  of  a bully,  or  the  love  of  a fribble,  was 
strong  and  ardent  when  there  was  no  occasion  for  it,  and 
subsided  when  he  had  an  opportunity  of  bringing  it  to  the 
proof.  As  soon  as  the  revolutionary  spirit  really  began  to 
stir  in  Europe,  as  soon  as  the  hatred  of  kings  became  some- 
thing more  than  a sonorous  phrase,  he  was  frightened  into  a 
fanatical  royalist,  and  became  one  of  the  most  extravagant 
alarmists  of  those  wretched  times.  In  truth,  his  talk  about 
liberty,  whether  he  knew  it  or  not,  was  from  the  beginning 
a mere  cant,  the  remains  of  a phraseology  which  had  meant 
something  in  the  mouths  of  those  from  whom  he  had  learned 
it,  but  which,  in  his  mouth,  meant  about  as  much  as  the  oath 
by  which  the  Knights  of  some  modern  orders  bind  them- 
selves to  redress  the  wrongs  of  all  injured  ladies.  He  had 
been  fed  in  his  boyhood  with  Whig  speculations  on  govern- 
ment. He  must  often  have  seen,  at  Houghton  or  in  Down- 
ing Street,  men  who  had  been  Whigs  when  it  was  as  dan- 
gerous to  be  a Whig  as  to  be  a highwayman,  men  who  had 
voted  for  the  Exclusion  Bill,  who  had  been  concealed  in 
garrets  and  cellars  after  the  battle  of  Sedgemoor,  and  who 


HORACE  WALPOLE. 


11 


had  set  their  names  to  the  declaration  that  they  would  live 
and  die  with  the  Prince  of  Orange.  He  had  acquired  the 
language  of  these  men,  and  he  repeated  it  by  rote,  though 
it  was  at  variance  with  all  his  tastes  and  feelings ; just  as 
some  old  Jacobite  families  persisted  in  praying  for  the  Pre- 
tender, and  in  passing  their  glasses  over  the  water  decanter* 
when  they  drink  the  King’s  health,  long  after  they  had  be- 
come loyal  supporters  of  the  government  of  George  the 
Third.  He  was  a Whig  by  the  accident  of  hereditary  con- 
nection ; but  he  was  essentially  a courtier ; and  not  less  a 
courtier  because  he  pretended  to  sneer  at  the  objects  which 
excited  his  admiration  and  envy.  His  real  tastes  perpetu- 
ally show  themselves  through  the  thin  disguise.  While  pro- 
fessing all  the  contempt  of  Bradshaw  or  Ludlow  for  crowned 
heads,  he  took  the  trouble  to  write  a book  concerning  Royal 
Authors.  He  pryed  with  the  utmost  anxiety  into  the  most 
minute  particulars  relating  to  the  Royal  family.  When  he 
was  a child,  he  was  haunted  with  a longing  to  see  George 
the  First,  and  gave  his  mother  no  peace  till  she  had  found 
a way  of  gratifying  his  curiosity.  The  same  feeling,  covered 
with  a thousand  disguises,  attended  him  to  the  grave.  No 
observation  that  dropped  from  the  lips  of  Majesty  seemed 
to  him  too  trifling  to  be  recorded.  The  French  songs  of 
Prince  Frederic,  compositions  certainly  not  deserving  of 
preservation  on  account  of  their  intrinsic  merit,  have  been 
carefully  preserved  for  us  by  this  contemner  of  royalty.  In 
truth,  every  page  of  Walpole’s  works  bewrays  him.  This 
Diogenes,  who  would  be  thought  to  prefer  his  tub  to  a palace, 
and  who  has  nothing  to  ask  of  the  masters  of  Windsor  and 
Versailles  but  that  they  will  stand  out  of  his  light,  is  a 
gentleman-usher  at  heart. 

He  had,  it  is  plain,  an  uneasy  consciousness  of  the  frivolity 
of  his  favorite  pursuits ; and  this  consciousness  produced 
one  of  the  most  diverting  of  his  ten  thousand  affectations. 
His  busy  idleness,  his  indifference  to  matters  which  the 
world  generally  regards  as  important,  his  passion  for  trifles, 
he  thought  fit  to  dignify  with  the  name  of  philosophy.  He 
spoke  of  himself  as  of  a man  whose  equanimity  was  proof  to 
ambitious^iopes  and  fears,  who  had  learned  to  rate  power, 
wealth,  and  fame  at  their  true  value,  and  whom  the  conflict 
of  parties,  the  rise  and  fall  of  statesmen,  the  ebb  and  flow  of 
public  opinion,  moved  only  to  a smile  of  mingled  compas- 
sion and  disdain.  It  was  owring  to  the  peculiar  elevation  of 
his  character  that  he  cared  about  a pinnacle  of  lath  and 


12 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


plaster  more  than  about  the  Middlesex  election,  and  about 
a miniature  of  Grammont  more  than  about  the  American 
Revolution.  Pitt  and  Murray  might  talk  themselves  hoarse 
about  trifles.  But  questions  of  government  and  war  were 
too  insignificant  to  detain  a mind  which  was  occupied  in 
recording  the  scandal  of  club-rooms  and  the  whispers  of  the 
back-stairs,  <*nd  which  was  even  capable  of  selecting  and  dis- 
posing chairs  of  ebony  and  shields  of  rhinoceros-skin. 

One  of  his  innumerable  whims  was  an  extreme  unwilling- 
ness to  be  considered  a man  of  letters.  Not  that  lie  was  in- 
different to  literary  fame.  Far  from  it.  Scarcely  any  writer 
has  ever  troubled  himself  so  much  about  the  appearance 
which  his  works  were  to  make  before  posterity.  But  he  had 
set  his  heart  on  incompatible  objects.  He  wished  to  be  a 
celebrated  author,  and  yet  to  be  a mere  idle  gentleman,  one 
of  those  Epicurean  gods  of  the  earth  who  do  nothing  at  all, 
and  who  pass  their  existence  in  the  contemplation  of  their 
own  perfections.  He  did  not  like  to  have  anything  in  com- 
mon with  the  wretches  who  lodged  in  the  little  courts  behind 
St.  Martin’s  Church,  and  stole  out  on  Sundays  to  dine  with 
their  bookseller.  He  avoided  the  society  of  authors.  Ha 
spoke  with  lordly  contempt  of  the  most  distinguished  among 
them.  He  tried  to  find  out  some  way  of  writing  books,  as 
M.  Jourdain’s  father  sold  cloth,  without  derogating  from  his 
character  of  Gentilhomme . “ Lui,  marchand  ? C’est  pure 

medisance  : il  ne  l’a  jamais  ete.  Tout  ce  qu’il  faisait,  c’est 
qu’il  etait  fort  obligeant,  fort  oflicieux  ; et  comme  il  se  con- 
naissait  fort  bien  en  etoffes,  il  en  allait  choisir  de  tous  le& 
cotes,  les  faisait  apporter  chez  lui,  et  en  donnait  a ses  amis 
pour  de  l’argent.”  There  are  several  amusing  instances  of 
Walpole’s  feeling  on  this  subject  in  the  letters  now  before 
us.  Mann  had  complimented  him  on  the  learning  which 
appeared  in  the  “ Catalogue  of  Royal  and  Noble  Authors ; ” 
and  it  is  curious  to  see  how  impatiently  Walpole  bore  the 
imputation  of  having  attended  to  anything  so  unfashionable 
as  the  improvement  of  his  mind.  “I  know  nothing.  How 
should  I ? I who  have  always  lived  in  the  big  busy  world ; 
who  lie  a-bed  all  the  morning,  calling  it  morning  as  long  as 
you  please  ; who  sup  in  company  ; who  have  played  at  faro 
half  my  life,  and  now  at  loo  till  two  and  three  in  the  morn- 
ing; who  have  always  loved  pleasure;  haunted  auctions, 
* * * * How  I have  laughed  when  some  of  the  Magazines 
have  called  me  the  learned  gentleman.  Pray  don’t  be  like 
the  Magazines.”  This  folly  might  be  pardoned  in  a boy. 


HORACE  WALPOLE. 


13 


But  a man  between  forty  and  fifty  years  old,  as  Walpole 
then  was,  ought  to  be  quite  as  much  ashamed  of  playing  at 
loo  till  three  every  morning  as  of  being  that  vulgar  thing,  a 
learned  gentleman. 

The  literary  character  has  undoubtedly  its  full  share  of 
faults,  and  of  very  serious  and  offensive  faults.  If  W alpole 
had  avoided  those  faults,  we  could  have  pardoned  the  fas- 
tidiousness with  which  he  declined  all  fellowship  with  men 
of  learning.  But  from  those  faults  Walpole  was  not  one  jot 
more  free  than  the  garreteers  from  whose  contact  he  shrank. 
Of  literary  meannesses  and  literary  vices,  his  life  and  his 
works  contain  as  many  instances  as  the  life  and  the  works 
of  any  member  of  Johnson’s  club.  The  fact  is,  that  Walpole 
had  the  faults  of  Grub  Street,  with  a large  addition  from  St. 
James’s  Street,  the  vanity,  the  jealousy,  the  irritability  of  a 
man  of  letters,  the  affected  superciliousness  and  apathy  of  a 
man  of  ton . 

His  judgment  of  literature,  of  contemporary  literature 
especially,  was  altogether  perverted  by  his  aristocratical 
feelings.  No  writer  surely  was  ever  guilty  of  so  much  false 
and  absurd  criticism.  He  almost  invariably  speaks  with 
contempt  of  those  books  which  are  now  universally  allowed 
to  be  the  best  that  appeared  in  his  time  ; and,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  speaks  of  writers  of  rank  and  fashion  as  if  they 
were  entitled  to  the  same  precedence  in  literature  which 
would  have  been  allowed  to  them  in  a drawing-room.  In 
these  letters,  for  example,  he  says  that  he  would  rather  have 
written  the  most  absurd  lines  in  Lee  than  Thomson’s  Sea- 
sons. The  periodical  paper  called  “ The  World,”  on  the 
other  hand,  was  by  “ our  first  writers.”  Who,  then,  were 
the  first  writers  of  England  in  the  year  1753?  Walpole  has 
told  us  in  a note.  Our  readers  will  probably  guess  that 
Hume,  Fielding,  Smollett,  Richardson,  Johnson,  Warburton, 
Collins,  Akenside,  Gray,  Dyer,  Young,  Warton,  Mason,  or 
some  of  those  distinguished  men,  were  in  the  list.  Not  one 
of  them.  Our  first  writers,  it  seems,  were  Lord  Chesterfield, 
Lord  Bath,  Mr.  W.  Wliithed,  Sir  Charles  Williams,  Mr. 
Soame  Jenyns,  Mr.  Cambridge,  Mr.  Coventry.  Of  these 
seven  personages,  Whithed  was  the  lowest  in  station,  but 
was  the  most  accomplished  tuft-hunter  of  his  time.  Coventry 
was  of  a noble  family.  The  other  five  had  among  them  two 
seats  in  the  House  of  Lords,  two  seats  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, three  seats  in  the  Privy  Council,  a baronetcy,  a blue 
riband,  a red  riband,  about  a hundred  thousand  pounds  a 


14  MACAULAYS  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

year,  and  not  ten  pages  that  are  worth  reading.  The 
writings  of  Whithed,  Cambridge,  Coventry,  and  Lord  Bath 
are  forgotten.  Soame  Jenyns  is  remembered  chiefly  by 
Johnson’s  review  of  the  foolish  essay  on  the  Origin  of  Evil. 
Lord  Chesterfield  stands  much  lower  in  the  estimation  of 
posterity  than  he  would  have  done  if  his  letters  had  never 
been  published.  The  lampoons  of  Sir  Charles  Williams  are 
now  read  only  by  the  curious,  and,  though  not  without 
occasional  flashes  of  wit,  have  always  seemed  to  us,  we  must 
own,  very  poor  performances. 

Walpole  judged  of  French  literature  after  the  same 
fashion.  Pie  understood  and  loved  the  French  language. 
Indeed,  he  loved  it  too  well.  His  style  is  more  deeply 
tainted  with  Gallicism  than  that  of  any  other  English  writer 
with  whom  we  are  acquainted.  His  composition  often  reads, 
for  a page  together,  like  a rude  translation  from  the  French, 
We  meet  every  minute  with  such  sentences  as  these,  “ One 
knows  what  temperaments  Annibal  Caracci  painted.” 
“ The  impertinent  personage  ! ” “ She  is  dead  rich.”  “ Lord 
Dalkeith  is  dead  of  the  small-pox  in  three  days.”  “ It  will 
not  be  seen  whether  he  or  they  are  most  patriot.” 

His  love  of  the  French  language  was  of  a peculiar  kind. 
He  loved  it  as  having  been  for  a century  the  vehicle  of  all 
the  polite  nothings  of  Europe,  as  the  sign  by  which  the 
freemasons  of  fashion  recognized  each  other  in  every  capi- 
tal from  Petersburgh  to  Naples,  as  the  language  of  raillery, 
as  the  language  of  anecdote,  as  the  language  of  memoirs,  as 
the  language  of  correspondence.  Its  higher  uses  he  alto- 
gether disregarded.  The  literature  of  France  has  been  to 
ours  what  Aaron  was  to  Moses,  the  expositor  of  great  truths 
which  would  else  have  perished  for  want  of  a voice  to  utter 
them  with  distinctness.  The  relation  which  existed  be- 
tween Mr.  Bentham  and  M.  Dumont  is  an  exact  illustration 
of  the  intellectual  relation  in  which  the  two  countries  stand 
to  each  other.  The  great  discoveries  in  physics,  in  meta- 
physics, in  political  science,  are  ours.  But  scarcely  any 
foreign  nations  except  France  has  received  them  from  us 
by  direct  communication.  Isolated  by  our  situation,  isolated 
by  our  manners,  we  found  truth,  but  we  did  not  impart  it 
France  has  been  the  interpreter  between  England  and  man 
kind. 

In  the  time  of  Walpole,  this  process  of  interpretatio 
Was  in  full  activity.  The  great  French  writers  were  busy 
in  proclaiming  through  Europe  the  names  of  Bacon,  of 


HORACE  WALPOLE. 


15 


jNewton,  and  of  Locke.  The  English  principles  of  tolera- 
tion, the  English  respect  for  personal  liberty,  the  English 
doctrine  that  all  power  is  a trust  for  the  public  good,  were 
making  rapid  progress.  There  is  scarcely  anything  in  his- 
tory so  interesting  as  that  great  stirring  up  of  the  mind  ol 
France,  that  shaking  of  the  foundations  of  all  established 
opinions,  that  uprooting  of  old  truth  and  old  error.  It  was 
plain  that  mighty  principles  were  at  work  whether  for  evil 
or  for  good.  It  was  plain  that  a great  change  in  the  whole 
social  system,  was  at  hand.  Fanatics  of  one  kind  might  an- 
ticipate a golden  age,  in  which  men  should  live  under  the 
simple  dominion  of  reason,  in  perfect  equality  and  perfect 
amity,  without  property,  or  marriage,  or  king,  or  God.  A 
fanatic  of  another  kind  might  see  nothing  in  the  doctrines 
of  the  philosophers  but  anarchy  and  atheism,  might  cling 
more  closely  to  every  old  abusn,  and  might  regret  the  good 
old  days  when  St.  Dominic  and  Simon  de  Montfort  put 
down  the  growing  heresies  of  Provence.  A wise  man 
would  have  seen  with  regret  the  excesses  into  which  the 
reformers  were  running ; but  ho  would  have  done  justice  to 
their  genius  and  to  their  philanthropy.  He  would  have 
censured  their  errors ; but  he  would  have  remembered  that, 
as  Milton  has  said,  error  is  but  opinion  in  the  making. 
While  he  condemned  their  hostility  to  religion,  he  would 
have  acknowledged  that  it  was  the  natural  effect  of  a sys- 
tem under  which  religion  had  been  constantly  exhibited  to 
them  in  forms  which  common  sense  rejected  and  at  which 
humanity  shuddered.  While  he  condemned  some  of  their 
political  doctrines  as  incompatible  with  all  law,  all  property, 
and  all  civilization,  he  would  have  acknowledged  that  the 
subjects  of  Lewis  the  Fifteenth  had  every  excuse  which 
men  could  have  for  being  eager  to  pull  down,  and  for  being 
ignorant  of  the  far  higher  art  of  setting  up.  While  antici- 
pating a fierce  conflict,  a great  and  wide-wasting  destruc- 
tion, he  would  yet  have  looked  forward  to  the  final  close 
with  a good  hope  for  France  and  for  mankind. 

Walpole  had  neither  hopes  nor  fears.  Though  the  most 
Frenchified  English  writer  of  the  eighteenth  century,  he 
troubled  himself  little  about  the  portents  which  were  daily 
to  be  discerned  in  the  French  literature  of  his  time.  While 
the  most  eminent  Frenchmen  were  studying  with  enthusias- 
tic delight  English  politics  and  English  philosophy,  he  was 
studying  as  intensely  the  gossip  of  the  old  court  of  France. 
The  fashions  and  scandal  of  Versailles  and  Marli,  fashions 


16 


MACATTtAY  8 MISCELLANEOUS  WEmN&g. 


and  scandal  a hundred  years  old,  occupied  him  infinitely 
more  than  a great  moral  revolution  which  was  taking  place 
in  his  sight.  He  took  a prodigious  interest  in  every  noble 
sharper  whose  vast  volume  of  wig  and  infinite  length  of 
riband  had  figured  at  the  dressing  or  at  the  tucking  up  of 
Lewis  the  Fourteenth,  and  of  every  profligate  woman  of 
quality  who  had  carried  her  train  of  lovers  backward  and 
forward  from  king  to  parliament,  and  from  parliament  to 
king  during  the  wars  of  the  Fronde . These  were  the  peo- 
ple of  whom  he  treasured  up  the  smallest  memorial,  of 
whom  he  loved  to  bear  the  most  trifling  anecdote,  and  for 
whose  likenesses  he  would  have  given  any  price.  Of  the 
great  French  writers  of  his  own  time,  Montesquieu  is  the 
only  one  of  whom  he  speaks  with  enthusiasm.  And  even 
of  Montesquieu  he  speaks  with  less  enthusiasm  than  of  that 
abject  thing,  Crebillon  the  younger,  a scribbler  as  licen- 
tious as  Louvet  and  as  dull  as  Rapin.  A man  must  be 
strangely  constituted  who  can  take  interest  in  pedantic 
journals  of  the  blockades  laid  by  the  Duke  of  A.  to  the 
hearts  of  the  Marquise  de  B.  and  the  Comtesse  de  C.  This 
trash  Walpole  extols  in  language  sufficiently  high  for  the 
merits  of  Don  Quixote.  He  wished  to  possess  a likeness  of 
Crebillon ; and  Liotard,  the  first  painter  of  miniatures  then 
living,  was  employed  to  preserve  the  features  of  the  profli- 
gate dunce.  The  admirer  of  the  Sopha  and  of  the  Lettres 
Atheniennes  had  little  respect  to  spare  for  the  men  who 
were  then  at  the  head  of  French  literature.  He  kept  care- 
fully out  of  their  way.  He  tried  to  keep  other  people 
from  paying  them  any  attention.  He  could  not  deny  that 
Voltaire  and  Rousseau  were  clever  men;  but  he  took 
every  opportunity  of  depreciating  them.  Of  D’Alembert  he 
epoke  with  a contempt  which,  when  the  intellectual  powers 
of  the  two  men  are  compared,  seems  exquisitely  ridiculous 
D’Alembert  complained  that  he  was  accused  of  having  writ- 
ten Walpole’s  squib  against  Rousseau.  “ I hope,”  says 
Walpole,  “that  no  one  will  attribute  D’Alembert’s  works  to 
me.”  He  was  in  little  danger. 

It  is  impossible  to  deny,  however,  that  Walpole’s  wri- 
tings have  real  merit,  and  merit  of  a very  rare,  though  not 
of  a very  high  kind.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  used  to  say  that, 
though  nobody  would  for  a moment  compare  Claude  to 
Raphael,  there  would  be  another  Raphael  before  there  was 
another  Claude.  And  we  own  that  we  expect  to  see  fresh 
Humes  and  fresh  Burkes  before  we  again  fall  in  with  that 


ftOKACE  WALPOLE 


it 


peculiar  combination  of  moral  and  intellectual  qualities  to 
which  the  writings  of  Walpole  owe  their  extraordinary  pop- 
ularity. 

It  is  easy  to  describe  him  by  negatives.  He  had  not  a 
creative  imagination.  He  had  not  a pure  taste.  He  was 
not  a great  reasoner.  There  is  indeed  scarcely  any  writer 
in  whose  works  it  would  be  possible  to  find  so  many  contra- 
dictory  judgments,  so  many  sentences  of  extravagant  non- 
sense. Nor  was  it  only  in  his  familiar  correspondence  that 
he  wrote  in  this  flighty  and  inconsistent  manner,  but  in  long 
and  elaborate  books,  in  books  repeatedly  transcribed  and 
intended  for  the  public  eye.  We  will  give  an  instance  or 
two;  for  without  instances,  readers  not  very  familiar  with 
his  works  will  scarcely  understand  our  meaning.  In  the 
Anecdotes  of  Painting,  he  states,  very  truly,  that  the  art 
declined  after  the  commencement  of  the  civil  wars.  He 
proceeds  to  inquire  why  this  happened.  The  explanation, 
we  should  have  thought,  would  have  been  easily  found.  He 
might  have  mentioned  the  loss  of  a king  wTho  was  the  most 
munificent  and  judicious  patron  that  the  fine  arts  have  ever 
had  in  England,  the  troubled  state  of  the  country,  the  dis- 
tressed condition  of  many  of  the  aristocracy,  perhaps  also 
the  austerity  of  the  victorious  party.  These  circumstances, 
we  conceive,  fully  account  for  the  phenomenon.  But  this 
solution  was  not  odd  enough  to  satisfy  Walpole.  He  dis- 
covers another  cause  for  the  decline  of  the  art,  the  want  of 
models.  Nothing  worth  painting,  it  seems,  was  left  to  paint. 
u How  picturesque,”  he  exclaims,  “ was  the  figure  of  an 
Anabaptist!” — as  if  puritanism  had  put  out  the  sun  and 
withered  the  trees  ; as  if  the  civil  wars  had  blotted  out  the” 
expression  of  character  and  passion  from  the  human  lip  and 
brow;  as  if  many  of  the  men  whom  Vandyke  painted  had 
not  been  living  in  the  time  of  the  Commonwealth,  with 
faces  little  the  worse  for  wear ; as  if  many  of  the  beauties 
afterwards  portrayed  by  Lely  were  not  in  their  prime  be- 
fore the  Restoration  ; as  if  the  garb  or  the  features  of  Crom- 
well or  Milton  were  less  picturesque  than  those  of  the  round- 
faced  peers,  as  like  each  other  as  eggs  to  eggs,  who  look  out 
from  the  middle  of  the  periwigs  of  Kneller.  In  the  Memoirs, 
again,  Walpole  sneers  at  the  Prince  of  Wales,  afterwards 
George  the  Third,  for  presenting  a collection  of  books  to  one 
of  the  American  colleges  during  the  Seven  Years’ War,  and 
says  that,  instead  of  books,  His  Royal  Highness  ought 
to  have  sent  arms  and  ammunition ; as  if  a war  ought  to  sus* 
Vol.  II.— 2 


18 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  Writings, 


pend  Jill  study  and  all  education ; or  as  if  it  was  the  business 
of  the  Prince  of  Wales  to  supply  the  colonies  with  military 
stores  out  of  his  own  pocket.  We  have  perhaps  dwelt  too 
long  on  these  passages ; but  we  have  done  so  because  they 
are  specimens  of  Walpole’s  manner.  Everybody  who  reads 
his  works  with  attention,  will  find  that  they  swarm  with 
loose  and  foolish  observations  like  those  which  we  have 
cited  ; observations  which  might  pass  in  conversation  or  in 
a hasty  letter,  but  which  are  unpardonable  in  books  deliber- 
ately written  and  repeatedly  corrected. 

He  appears  to  have  thought  that  he  saw  very  far  into 
men  ; but  we  are  under  the  necessity  of  altogether  dissent- 
ing from  his  opinion.  We  do  not  conceive  that  he  had  any 
power  of  discerning  the  finer  shades  of  character.  He  prac- 
tised an  art,  however,  which,  though  easy  and  even  vulgar, 
obtains  for  those  who  practise  it  the  reputation  of  discern- 
ment with  ninety-nine  people  out  of  a hundred.  He  sneered 
at  everybody,  put  on  every  action  the  worst  construction 
which  it  would  bear,  “ spelt  every  man  backward,”  to  borrow 
the  Lady  Hero’s  phrase, 

“Turned  every  man  the  wrong  side  out, 

And  never  gave  to  truth  and  virtue  that 
Which  simpleness  and  merit  purchaseth.” 

In  this  way  any  man  may,  with  little  sagacity  and  little 
trouble,  be  considered  by  those  whose  good  opinion  are  not 
worth  having  as  a great  judge  of  character. 

It  is  said  that  the  hasty  and  rapacious  Kneller  used  to 
send  away  the  ladies  who  sate  to  him  as  soon  as  he  had 
sketched  their  faces,  and  to  paint  the  figure  and  hands  from 
his  housemaid.  It  was  in  much  the  same  way  that  Walpole 
portrayed  the  minds  of  others.  He  copied  from  the  life 
only  those  glaring  and  obvious  peculiarities  which  could  not 
escape  the  most  superficial  observation.  The  rest  of  the 
canvas  he  filled  up,  in  a careless  dashing  way,  with  knave 
and  fool,  mixed  in  such  proportions  as  pleased  Heaven. 
What  a difference  between  these  daubs  and  the  masterly 
portraits  of  Clarendon. 

There  are  contradictions  without  end  in  the  sketches  of 
character  which  abound  in  Walpole’s  works.  But  if  we 
were  to  form  our  opinion  of  his  eminent  contemporaries 
from  a general  survey  of  what  he  has  written  concerning 
them,  we  should  say  that  Pitt  was  a strutting,  ranting, 
mouthing  actor,  Charles  Townshend  an  impudent  and  volu- 
ble jack-pudding,  Murray  a demure,  cold-blooded,  cowardly 


HOEACE  WALPOLE. 


19 


hypocrite,  Hardwicke  an  insolent  upstart,  with  the  under, 
standing  of  a pettifogger  and  the  heart  of  a hangman,  Temple 
an  impertinent  poltroon,  Egmont  a solemn  coxcomb,  Lyttel- 
ton a poor  creature  whose  only  wish  was  to  go  to  heaven  in 
a coronet,  Onslow  a pompous  proser,  Washington  a brag- 
gart, Lord  Camden  sullen,  Lord  Townshend  malevolent, 
Seeker  an  atheist  who  had  shammed  Christian  for  a mitre, 
Whitefield  an  impostor  who  swindled  his  converts  out  of 
their  watches.  The  W alpoles  fare  little  better  than  their 
neighbors.  Old  Horace  is  constantly  represented  as  a coarse, 
brutal,  niggardly  buffoon,  and  his  son  as  worthy  of  such  a 
father.  In  short,  if  we  are  to  trust  this  discerning  judge  of 
human  nature,  England  in  his  time  contained  little  sense 
and  no  virtue,  except  what  was  distributed  between  himself, 
Lord  Waldgrave,  and  Marshal  Conway. 

Of  such  a writer  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say,  that  his 
works  are  destitute  of  every  charm  which  is  derived  from 
elevation  or  from  tenderness  of  sentiment.  When  he  chose 
to  be  humane,  and  magnanimous, — for  he  sometimes,  by  way 
of  variety,  tried  his  affectation, — he  overdid  this  part  most 
ludicrously.  None  of  his  many  disguises  sat  so  awkwardly 
upon  him.  For  example,  he  tells  us  that  he  did  not  choose 
to  be  intimate  with  Mr.  Pitt.  And  why?  Because  Mr. 
Pitt  had  been  among  the  persecutors  of  his  father?  Or 
because,  as  he  repeatedly  assures  us,  Mr.  Pitt  was  a disagree- 
able man  in  private  life?  Not  at  all ; but  because  Mr.  Pitt 
was  too  fond  of  war,  and  was  great  with  too  little  reluc- 
tance. Strange  that  a habitual  scoffer  like  W alpole  should 
imagine  that  this  cant  could  impose  on  the  dullest  reader ! 
If  Moliere  had  put  such  a speech  into  the  mouth  of  Tartuffe, 
we  should  have  said  that  the  fiction  was  unskilful,  and  that 
Orgon  could  not  have  been  such  a fool  as  to  be  taken  in  by 
it.  Of  the  twenty-six  years  during  which  W alj^ole  sat  in 
Parliament,  thirteen  were  years  of  war.  Yet  he  did  not, 
during  all  those  thirteen  years,  utter  a single  word  or  give  a 
single  vote  tending  to  peace.  His  most  intimate  friend,  the 
only  friend,  indeed,  to  whom  he  appears  to  have  been  sin- 
cerely  attached,  Conway,  was  a soldier,  was  fond  of  his  pro- 
fession, and  was  perpetually  entreating  Mr.  Pitt  to  give  him 
employment.  In  this  Walpole  saw  nothing  but  what  was 
admirable.  Conway  was  a hero  for  soliciting  the  command 
of  expeditions  which  Mr.  Pitt  was  a monster  for  sending  out. 

What  then  is  the  charm,  the  irresistible  charm  of  Wal- 
pole’s writings?  It  consists,  we  think,  in  the  art  of  amus> 


20  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

ing  without  exciting.  He  never  convinces  the  reason,  or 
fills  the  imagination,  or  touches  the  heart ; but  he  keeps  the 
mind  of  the  reader  constantly  attentive  and  constantly  en- 
tertained. He  had  a strange  ingenuity  peculiarly  his  own, 
an  ingenuity  which  appeared  in  all  that  he  did,  in  his  build- 
ing, in  his  gardening,  in  his  upholstery,  in  the  matter  and  in 
the  manner  of  his  writings.  If  wre  were  to  adopt  the  classi- 
fication, not  a very  accurate  classification,  which  Akensido 
has  given  of  the  pleasures  of  the  imagination,  w^e  should  say 
that  with  the  Sublime  and  the  Beautiful  Walpole  had  noth- 
ing to  do,  but  that  the  third  province,  the  Odd,  was  his 
peculiar  domain.  The  motto  which  he  prefixed  to  his  Cata- 
logue of  Royal  and  Noble  Authors  might  have  been  in- 
scribed with  perfect  propriety  over  the  door  of  every  room 
in  his  house,  and  on  the  titlepage  of  every  one  of  his  books ; 
“ Dove  diavolo,  Messer  Ludovico  avete  pigliate  tante  cog- 
lionerie  ? ” In  his  villa  every  apartment  is  a museum ; every 
piece  of  furniture  is  a curiosity  : there  is  something  strange  in 
the  form  of  the  shovel ; there  is  a long  story  belonging  to 
the  bell-rope.  We  wander  among  a profusion  of  rarities,  of 
trifling  intrinsic  value,  but  so  quaint  in  fashion,  or  connected 
with  such  remarkable  names  and  events,  that  they  may  wrell 
detain  our  attention  for  a moment.  A moment  is  enough. 
Some  new  relic,  some  new  unique,  some  new  carved  work, 
some  new  enamel,  is  forthcoming  in  an  instant.  One  cabi- 
net of  trinkets  is  no  sooner  closed  than  another  is  opened. 
It  is  the  same  with  Walpole’s  writings.  It  is  not  in  their 
utility,  it  is  not  in  their  beauty,  that  their  attraction  lies. 
They  are  to  the  works  of  great  historians  and  poets,  what 
Strawberry  Hill  is  to  the  Museum  of  Sir  Hans  Sloane  or  to 
the  gallery  of  Florence.  Walpole  is  constantly  showing  us 
things,  not  of  very  great  value  indeed,  yet  things  which  wre 
are  pleased  to  see,  and  which  we  can  see  nowhere  else. 
They  are  baubles ; but  they  are  made  curiosities  either  by 
Lis  grotesque  workmanship  or  by  some  association  belong- 
ing to  them.  His  style  is  one  of  those  peculiar  styles*  by 
which  everybody  is  attracted,  and  which  nobody  can  safely 
venture  to  imitate.  He  is  a mannerist  whose  manner  has 
become  perfectly  easy  to  him.  His  affectation  is  so  habit- 
ual and  so  universal  that  it  can  hardly  be  called  affecta- 
tion. The  affectation  is  the  essence  of  the  man.  It  per- 
vades all  his  thoughts  and  all  his  expressions.  If  it  were 
taken  away,  nothing  wrould  be  left.  He  coins  new  words, 
distorts  the  senses  of  old  words,  and  twists  sentences  into 


HORACE  WALPOLE, 


21 


forms  which  make  grammarians  stare.  But  all  this  he  does, 
not  only  with  an  air  of  ease,  but  as  if  he  could  not  help 
doing  it.  His  wit  was,  in  its  essential  properties,  of  the  same 
kind  with  that  of  Cowley  and  Donne.  Like  theirs,  it  con- 
sisted in  an  exquisite  perception  of  points  of  analogy  and 
points  of  contrast  too  subtile  for  common  observation. 
Like  them,  Walpole  perpetually  startles  us  by  the  ease  with 
which  he  yokes  together  ideas  between  which  there  would 
seem,  at  first  sight,  to  be  no  connection.  But  he  did  not, 
like  them,  affect  the  gravity  of  a lecture,  and  draw  his  illus- 
trations from  the  laboratory  and  from  the  schools.  His  tone 
was  light  and  fleering  ; his  topics  were  the  topics  of  the  club 
and  the  ball-room ; and  therefore  his  strange*  combination 
and  far-fetched  allusions,  though  very  closely  resembling 
those  which  tire  us  to  death  in  the  poems  of  the  time  of 
Charles  the  First,  are  read  with  pleasure  constantly  new. 

No  man  who  has  written  so  much  is  so  seldom  tiresome. 
In  his  books  there  are  scarcely  any  of  those  passages  which, 
in  our  school  days,  we  used  to  call  skip.  Yet  he  often  wrote 
on  subjects  which  are  generally  considered  as  dull,  on  sub- 
jects which  men  of  great  talents  have  in  vain  endeavored 
to  render  popular.  When  we  compare  the  Historic  Doubts 
about  Richard  the  Third  with  Whitaker’s  and  Chalmers’s 
books  on  a far  more  interesting  question,  the  character  of 
Mary  Queen  of  Scots  ; when  we  compare  the  Anecdotes  of 
Painting  with  the  works  of  Anthony  Wood,  of  Nichols,  of 
Granger,  we  at  once  see  Walpole’s  superiority,  not  in  indus- 
try, not  in  learning,  not  in  accuracy,  not  in  logical  power,  but 
in  the  art  of  writing  what  peojde  will  like  to  read.  He  re- 
jects all  but  the  attractive  parts  of  his  subject.  He  keeps 
only  what  is  in  itself  amusing,  or  what  can  be  made  so  by  the 
artifice  of  his  diction.  The  coarser  morsels  of  antiquarian 
learning  he  abandons  to  others,  and  sets  out  an  entertain- 
ment worthy  of  a Roman  epicure,  an  entertainment  consist- 
ing of  nothing  but  delicacies,  the  brains  of  singingbirds,  the 
roe  of  mullets,  the  sunny  halves  of  peaches.  This,  we  think, 
is  the  great  merit  of  his  romance.  There  is  little  skill  in 
the  delineation  of  the  characters.  Manfred  is  as  common- 
place a tyrant,  Jerome  as  commonplace  a confessor,  Theo- 
dore as  commonplace  a young  gentleman,  Isabella  and  Ma- 
tilda as  commonplace  a pair  of  young  ladies,  as  are  to  be 
found  in  any  of  the  thousand  Italian  castles  in  which  condot- 
tieri  have  revelled  or  which  imprisoned  duchesses  have 
pined.  We  cannot  say  that  we  much  admire  the  big  man 


2ii 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


whose  sword  is  dug  up  in  one  quarter  of  the  globe,  whose 
helmet  drops  from  the  clouds  in  another,  and  who,  after 
clattering  and  rustling  for  some  days,  ends  by  kicking  the 
house  down.  But  the  story,  whatever  its  value  may  be, 
never  flags  for  a single  moment.  There  are  no  digressions, 
or  unseasonable  descriptions,  or  long  speeches.  Every  sen- 
tence carries  the  action  forward.  The  excitement  is  con- 
stantly renewed.  Absurd  as  is  the  machinery,  insipid  as  are 
the  human  actors,  no  reader  probably  ever  thought  the  book 
dull. 

Walpole’s  letters  are  generally  considered  as  his  best  per- 
formances, and,  we  think,  with  reason.  His  faults  are  far 
less  offensive  to  us  in  his  correspondence  than  in  his  books. 
His  wild,  absurd,  and  ever-changing  opinions  about  men 
and  things  are  easily  pardoned  in  familiar  letters.  His  bit- 
ter scoffing,  depreciating  disposition  does  not  show  itself 
mi  so  unmitigated  a manner  as  in  his  Memoirs.  A wiiter 
of  letters  must  in  general  be  civil  and  friendly  to  his  corres- 
pondent at  least,  if  to  no  other  person. 

He  loved  letter-writing,  and  had  evidently  studied  it  as 
an  art.  It  was,  in  truth,  the  very  kind  of  writing  for  such 
a man,  for  a man  very  ambitious  to  rank  among  wits,  yet 
nervously  afraid  that,  while  obtaining  the  reputation  of  a 
wit,  he  might  lose  caste  as  a gentleman.  There  was  noth- 
ing vulgar  in  writing  a letter.  Not  even  Ensign  Norther- 
ton,  not  even  the  Captain  described  in  Hamilton’s  Bawn, — 
and  Walpole,  though  the  author  of  many  quartos,  had  some 
feelings  in  common  with  those  gallant  officers, — would  have 
denied  that  a gentleman  might  sometimes  correspond  with 
a friend.  Whether  Walpole  bestowed  much  labor  on  the 
composition  of  his  letters,  it  is  impossible  to  judge  from  in- 
ternal evidence.  There  are  passages  which  seem  perfectly 
unstudied.  But  the  appearance  of  ease  may  be  the  effect  of 
labor.  There  are  passages  which  have  a very  artificial  air. 
But  they  may  have  been  produced  without  effort  by  a mind 
of  which  the  natural  ingenuity  had  been  improved  into  mor- 
bid quickness  by  constant  exercise.  We  are  never  sure 
that  we  see  him  as  he  was.  We  are  never  sure  that  what 
appears  to  be  nature  is  not  disguised  art.  We  are  never 
sure  that  what  appears  to  be  art  is  not  merely  habit  which 
has  become  second  nature. 

In  wit  and  animation  the  present  collection  is  not  su- 
perior to  those  which  have  preceded  it.  But  it  has  one 
great  advantage  over  them  all.  It  forms  a connected 


HORACE  WALPOLE. 


whole,  a regular  journal  of  what  appeared  to  Walpole  the 
most  important  transactions  of  the  last  twenty  years  of 
George  the  Second’s  reign.  It  furnishes  much  new  informa- 
tion concerning  the  history  of  that  time,  the  portion  of  Eng- 
lish history  of  which  common  readers  know  the  least. 

The  earlier  letters  contain  the  most  lively  and  interest- 
ing account  which  we  possess  of  that  “ great  Walpolean 
battle,”  to  use  the  words  of  Junius,  which  terminated  in 
the  retirement  of  Sir  Robert.  Horace  entered  the  House  of 
Commons  just  in  time  to  witness  the  last  desperate  struggle 
which  his  father,  surrounded  by  enemies  and  traitors,  main- 
tained, with  a spirit  as  brave  as  that  of  the  column  of  Fon- 
tenoy,  first  for  victory,  and  then  for  honorable  retreat. 
Horace  was,  of  course,  on  the  side  of  his  family.  Lord 
Dover  seems  to  have  been  enthusiastic  on  the  same  side, 
and  goes  so  far  as  to  call  Sir  Robert  “ the  glory  of  the 
Whigs.” 

Sir  Robert  deserved  this  high  eulogium,  we  think,  as 
little  as  he  deserved  the  abusive  epithets  which  have  often 
been  coupled  with  his  name.  A fair  character  of  him  still 
remains  to  be  drawn  ; and,  whenever  it  shall  be  drawn,  it 
will  be  equally  unlike  the  portrait  by  Coxe  and  the  portrait 
by  Smollett. 

He  had,  undoubtedly,  great  talents  and  great  virtues. 
He  was  not,  indeed,  like  the  leaders  of  the  party  which  op- 
posed his  government,  a brilliant  orator.  He  was  not  a pro- 
found scholar,  like  Carteret,  or  a wit  and  a fine  gentleman, 
like  Chesterfield.  In  all  these  respects  his  deficiencies  were 
remarkable.  His  literature  consisted  of  a scrap  or  two  of 
Horace  and  an  anecdote  or  two  from  the  end  of  the  Dic- 
tionary. His  knowledge  of  history  was  so  limited  that,  in 
the  great  debate  on  the  Excise  Bill,  he  was  forced  to  ask 
Attorney-General  York  who  Empson  and  Dudley  were 
His  manners  were  a little  too  coarse  and  boisterous  even  for 
that  age  of  Westerns  and  Topehalls.  When  he  ceased  to 
talk  of  politics,  he  could  talk  of  nothing  but  women  ; and  he 
dilated  on  his  favorite  theme  with  a freedom  which  shocked 
even  that  plain-spoken  generation,  and  which  was  quite  un- 
suited  to  his  age  and  station.  The  noisy  revelry  of  his  sum- 
mer festivities  at  Houghton  gave  much  scandal  to  grave 
people,  and  annually  drove  his  kinsman  and  colleague,  Lord 
Townshend,  from  the  neighboring  mansion  of  Rainham. 

But,  however  ignorant  Walpole  might  be  of  general  his- 
tory and  of  general  literature,  he  was  better  acquainted  thaR 


24 


MACAULAY'S  MiSCUtLAKEOftS  W&i’ftlf&S. 


any  man  of  his  day  with  what  it  concerned  him  most  to 
know,  mankind,  the  English  nation,  the  Court,  the  House  of 
Commons,  and  the  Treasury.  Of  foreign  affairs  he  knew 
little  ; but  his  judgment  was  so  good  that  his  little  know! 
edge  went  very  far.  He  was  an  excellent  parliamentary  de- 
hater,  an  excellent  parliamentary  tactician,  an  excellent  man 
of  business.  No  man  ever  brought  more  industry  or  more 
method  to  the  transacting  of  affairs.  No  minister  in  his 
time  did  so  much  ; yet  no  minister  had  so  much  leisure. 

He  was  a good-natured  man  who  had  during  thirty  years 
seen  nothing  but  the  worst  parts  of  human  nature  in  other 
men.  He  was  familiar  with  the  malice  of  kind  people,  and 
the  perfidy  of  honorable  people.  Proud  men  had  licked  the 
dust  before  him.  Patriots  had  begged  him  to  come  up  to 
the  price  of  their  puffed  and  advertised  integrity.  He 
said  after  his  fall  that  it  was  a dangerous  thing  to  be  a min- 
ister, that  there  were  few  minds  which  would  not  be  injured 
by  the  constant  spectacle  of  meanness  and  depravity.  To 
his  honor  it  must  be  confessed  that  few  minds  have  come 
out  of  such  a trial  so  little  damaged  in  the  most  important 
parts.  He  retired,  after  more  than  twenty  years  of  supreme 
power,  with  a temper  not  soured,  with  a heart  not  hardened, 
with  simple  tastes,  with  frank  manners,  and  with  a capacity 
for  friendship.  No  stain  of  treachery,  of  ingratitude,  or  of 
cruelty  rests  on  his  memory.  Factious  hatred,  while  fling- 
ing on  his  name  every  other  foul  aspersion,  was  compelled 
to  own  that  he  was  not  a man  of  blood.  This  would  scarcely 
seem  a high  eulogium  on  a statesman  of  our  times.  It  was 
then  a rare  and  honorable  distinction.  The  contests  of 
parties  in  England  had  long  been  carried  on  with  a ferocity 
unworthy  of  a civilized  people.  Sir  Robert  Walpole  was 
the  minister  who  gave  to  our  Government  that  character  of 
lenity  which  it  has  since  generally  preserved.  It  was  per- 
fectly known  to  him  that  many  of  his  opponents  had  deal- 
ings with  the  Pretender.  The  lives  of  some  were  at  his 
mercy.  He  wanted  neither  Whig  nor  Tory  precedents  for 
using  his  advantage  unsparingly.  But  with  a clemency  to 
which  posterity  has  never  done  justice,  he  suffered  himself 
to  be  thwarted,  vilified,  and  at  last  overthrown,  by  a party 
wliich  included  many  men  whose  necks  were  in  his  power. 

That  he  practised  corruption  on  a large  scale  is,  we 
think,  indisputable.  But  whether  he  deserves  al?  the  in- 
vectives which  have  been  uttered  against  him  on  that  ac- 
count may  be  questioned.  No  man  ought  to  be  severely 


HORACE  WALPOLE. 


25 


censured  for  not  being  beyond  bis  age  in  virtue.  To  buy 
the  votes  of  constituents  is  as  immoral  as  to  buy  the  votes 
of  representatives.  The  candidate  who  gives  five  guineas 
to  the  freeman  is  as  culpable  as  the  man  who  gives  three 
hundred  guineas  to  the  member.  Yet  we  know,  that,  in 
our  time,  no  man  is  thought  wicked  or  dishonorable,  no  man 
is  cut,  no  man  is  black-balled,  because,  under  the  old  system 
of  election,  he  was  returned  in  the  only  way  in  which  he 
could  be  returned,  for  East  Retford,  for  Liverpool,  or  for 
Stafford.  Walpole  governed  by  corruption,  because,  in  his 
time,  it  was  impossible  to  govern  otherwise.  Corruption 
was  unnecessary  to  the  Tudors ; for  their  Parliaments  were 
feeble.  The  publicity  which  has  of  late  years  been  given 
to  parliamentary  proceedings  has  raised  the  standard  of 
morality  among  public  men.  The  power  of  public  opinion 
is  so  great  that,  even  before  the  reform  of  the  representa- 
tion, a faint  suspicion  that  a minister  had  given  pecuniary 
gratifications  to  Members  of  Parliament  in  return  for  their 
votes  would  have  been  enough  to  ruin  him.  But,  during 
the  century  which  followed  the  Restoration,  the  House  of 
Commons  ivas  in  that  situation  in  which  assemblies  must  be 
managed  by  corruption,  or  cannot  be  managed  at  all.  It 
was  not  held  in  awe  as  in  the  sixteenth  century,  by  the 
throne.  It  was  not  held  in  awe  as  in  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, by  the  opinion  of  the  people.  Its  constitution  was 
oligarchical.  Its  deliberations  were  secret.  Its  power  in 
the  State  was  immense.  The  Government  had  every  con- 
ceivable motive  to  offer  bribes.  Many  of  the  members,  if 
they  were  not  men  of  strict  honor  and  probity,  had  no  con- 
ceivable motive  to  refuse  what  the  Government  offered.  In 
the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second,  accordingly,  the  practice  of 
buying  votes  in  the  House  of  Commons  was  commenced  by 
the  daring  Clifford,  and  carried  to  a great  extent  by  the 
crafty  and  shameless  Danbv.  The  Revolution,  great  and 
manifold  as  were  the  blessings  of  which  it  was  directly  or 
remotely  the  cause,  at  first  aggravated  this  evil.  The  im- 
portance of  the  House  of  Commons  was  noAv  greater  than 
ever.  The  prerogatives  of  the  Crown  were  more  strictly 
limited  than  ever ; and  those  associations  in  which,  more 
than  in  its  legal  prerogatives,  its  power  had  consisted,  were 
completely  broken.  No  prince  was  ever  in  so  helpless  and 
distressing  a situation  as  William  the  Third.  The  party 
which  defended  his  title  was,  on  general  grounds,  disposed 
%9  curtail  his  prerogative,  The  party  whioa  yraS|  on  general 


26 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


Grounds,  friendly  to  prerogative,  was  adverse  to  his  title, 
There  was  no  quarter  in  which  t oth  his  office  and  his  per- 
son could  find  favor.  But  while  the  influence  of  the  House 
of  Commons  in  the  Government  was  becoming  paramount, 
the  influence  of  the  people  over  the  House  of  Commons  was 
declining.  It  mattered  little  in  the  time  of  Charles  the 
First  whether  that  House  were  or  were  not  chosen  by  the 
people ; it  was  certain  to  act  for  the  people,  because  it  would 
have  been  at  the  mercy  of  the  Court  but  for  the  support  oi 
the  people.  Now  that  the  Court  was  at  the  mercy  of 
the  House  of  Commons,  those  members  who  were  not 
returned  by  popular  election  had  nobody  to  please  but 
themselves.  Even  those  who  were  returned  by  popular 
election  did  not  live,  as  now,  under  a constant  sense  of  re- 
sponsibility, The  constituents  were  not,  as  now,  daily  ap- 
prised of  the  votes  and  speeehes  of  their  representatives. 
The  privileges  which  had  in  old  times  been  indispensably 
necessary  to  the  security  and  efficiency  of  Parliaments  were 
now  superfluous.  But  they  wore  still  carefully  maintained, 
by  honest  legislators  from  superstitious  veneration,  by  dis- 
honest legislators  for  their  own  selfish  ends.  They  had  been 
a useful  defence  to  the  Commons  during  a long  and  doubt- 
ful conflict  with  powerful  sovereigns.  They  were  now  no 
longer  necessary  for  that  purpose ; and  they  became  a de- 
fence to  the  members  against  their  constituents.  That 
secrecy  which  had  been  absolutely  necessary  in  times  when 
the  Privy  Council  was  in  the  habit  of  sending  the  leaders  of 
Opposition  to  the  Tower  was  preserved  in  times  when  a 
vote  of  the  House  of  Commons  was  sufficient  to  hurl  the 
most  powerful  minister  from  his  post. 

The  Government  could  not  go  on  unless  the  Parliament 
could  be  kept  in  order.  And  how  was  the  Parliament  to 
be  kept  in  order  ? Three  hundred  years  ago  it  would  have 
been  enough  for  a statesman  to  have  the  support  of  the 
Crown.  It  would  now,  we  hope  and  believe,  be  enough  for 
him  to  enjoy  the  confidence  and  approbation  of  the  great 
body  of  the  middle  class.  A hundred  years  ago  it  would 
not  have  been  enough  to  have  both  Crown  and  people  on 
bis  side.  The  Parliament  had  shaken  off  the  control  of  the 
Royal  prerogative.  It  had  not  yet  fallen  under  the  control 
of  public  opinion.  A large  proportion  of  the  members  had 
absolutely  no  motive  to  support  any  administration  except 
their  own  interest,  in  the  lowest  sense  of  the  word.  Under 
these  circumstances,  the  country  could  be  governed  only  by- 


HORACE  WALPOLE. 


•27 


corruption.  Bolingbroke,  who  was  the  ablest  and  the  most 
vehement  of  those  who  raised  the  clamor  against  corruption, 
had  no  better  remedy  to  propose  than  that  the  Royal  pre- 
rogative should  be  strengthened.  The  remedy  would  no 
doubt  have  been  efficient.  The  only  question  is,  whether  it 
would  not  have  been  worse  than  the  disease.  The  fault 
was  in  the  constitution  of  the  Legislature ; and  to  blame 
those  ministers  who  managed  the  Legislature  in  the  only 
way  in  which  it  could  be  managed  is  gross  injustice. 
They  submitted  to  extortion  because  they  could  not  help 
themselves.  We  might  as  well  accuse  the  poor  Lowland 
farmers  who  paid  black  mail  to  Rob  Roy  of  corrupting  the 
virtue  of  the  Highlanders,  as  accuse  Sir  Robert  Walpole  of 
corrupting  the  virtue  of  Parliament.  His  crime  was  merely 
this,  that  he  employed  his  money  more  dexterously,  and  got 
more  support  in  return  for  it,  than  any  of  those  who  prer 
ceded  or  followed  him. 

He  was  himself  incorruptible  by  money.  His  dominant 
passion  was  the  love  of  power : and  the  heaviest  charge 
which  can  be  brought  against  him  is  that  to  this  passion  he 
never  scrupled  to  sacrifice  the  interests  of  his  country. 

One  of  the  maxims  which,  as  his  son  tells  us,  he  was 
most  in  the  habit  of  repeating,  was,  quieta  non  movere.  It 
was  indeed  the  maxim  by  which  he  generally  regulated  his 
public  conduct.  It  is  the  maxim  of  a man  more  solicitous 
to  hold  power  long  than  to  use  it  well.  It  is  remarkable 
that,  though  he  was  at  the  head  of  affairs  during  more  than 
twenty  years,  not  one  great  measure,  not  one  important 
change  for  the  better  or  for  the  worse  in  any  part  of  our  in- 
stitutions, marks  the  period  of  his  supremacy.  Nor  was 
this  because  he  did  not  clearly  see  that  many  changes  were 
very  desirable.  He  had  been  brought  up  in  the  school  of 
toleration,  at  the  feet  of  Somers  and  of  Burnet.  He  dis- 
liked the  shameful  laws  against  Dissenters.  But  he  never 
could  be  induced  to  bring  forward  a proposition  for  repeal- 
ing them.  The  sufferers  represented  to  him  the  injustice 
with  which  they  were  treated,  boasted  of  their  firm  attach- 
ment to  the  House  of  Brunswick  and  to  the  Whig  party, 
and  reminded  him  of  his  own  repeated  declarations  of  good 
will  to  their  cause.  He  listened,  assented,  promised,  and 
did  nothing.  At  length,  the  question  was  brought  forward 
by  others,  and  the  Minister,  after  a hesitating  and  evasive 
speech,  voted  against  it.  The  truth  was  that  he  remembered 
to  the  latest  day  of  his  life  that  terrible  explosion  of  high- 


28 


fctACAULAY’s  MISCffci^AKEOtrS  WMflING#* 


church  feeling  which  the  foolish  prosecution  of  a foolish  p ar- 
son had  occasioned  in  the  days  of  Queen  Anne.  If  the  JDis- 
eenters  had  been  turbulent  he  would  probably  have  relieved 
them  : but  while  he  apprehended  no  danger  from  them,  he 
would  not  run  the  slightest  risk  for  their  sake.  He  acted 
in  the  same  manner  with  respect  to  other  questions.  lie 
knew  the  state  of  the  Scotch  Highlands.  He  was  constantly 
predicting  another  insurrection  in  that  part  of  the  empire. 
Yet.  during  his  long  tenure  of  power,  lie  never  attempted 
to  perform  what  was  then  the  most  obvious  and  pressing 
duty  of  a British  Statesman,  to  break  the  power  of  the 
Chiefs,  and  to  establish  the  authority  of  law  through  the 
furthest  corners  of  the  Island.  Nobody  knew  better  than 
he  that,  if  this  were  not  done,  great  mischiefs  would  follow. 
But  the  Highlands  were  tolerably  quiet  in  his  time.  He  was 
content  to  meet  daily  emergencies  by  daily  expedients ; and 
lie  left  the  rest  to  his  successors.  They  had  to  conquer  the 
Highlands  in  the  midst  of  a war  with  France  and  Spain, 
because  he  had  not  regulated  the  Highlands  in  a time  of 
profound  peace. 

Sometimes,  in  spite  of  all  his  caution,  he  found  that 
measures  which  he  had  hoped  to  carry  through  quietly  had 
caused  great  agitation.  When  this  was  the  case  he  gener- 
ally modified  or  withdrew  them.  It  was  thus  that  he  can- 
celled Wood’s  patent  in  compliance  with  the  absurd  outcry 
of  the  Irish.  It  was  thus  that  he  frittered  away  the  Por- 
teous  Bill  to  nothing,  for  fear  of  exasperating  the  Scotch. 
It  was  thus  that  he  abandoned  the  Excise  Bill,  as  soon  as  he 
found  that  it  was  offensive  to  all  the  great  towns  of  Eng- 
land. The  language  which  he  held  about  that  measure  in 
a subsequent  session  is  strikingly  characteristic.  Pulteney 
had  insinuated  that  the  scheme  would  again  be  brought 
forward.  “As  to  the  wicked  scheme,”  said  Walpole,  “as 
the  gentleman  is  pleased  to  call  it,  which  he  would  persuade 
gentlemen  ft  not  yet  laid  aside,  I for  my  part  assure  this 
House  I am  not  so  mad  as  ever  again  to  engage  in  anything 
that  looks  like  an  Excise ; though,  in  my  private  opinion,  I 
still  Blink  it  was  a scheme  that  would  have  tended  very 
much  to  the  interest  of  the  nation.” 

The  conduct  of  Walpole  with  regard  to  the  Spanish  war 
is  the  great  blemish  of  Jiis  public  life.  Archdeacon  Coxe 
imagined  that  he  had  discovered  one  grand  principle  of 
action  to  which  the  whole  public  conduct  of  his  hero  ought 
to  be  referred,  “Pid  the  administration  of  Walpole,”  saja 


BOftACft  WA1P01A 


29 


the  biographer,  u present  any  uniform  principle  which  may 
be  traced  in  every  part,  and  which  gave  combination  and 
consistency  to  the  whole  ? Yes,  and  that  principle  was,  The 
Love  of  Peace.”  It  would  be  difficult,  we  think,  to  bestow 
a higher  eulogium  on  any  statesman.  But  the  eulogium  is  far 
too  high  for  the  merits  of  Walpole.  The  great  ruling  prin- 
ciple of  his  public  conduct  was  indeed  a love  of  peace,  but 
not  in  the  sense  in  which  Archdeacon  Coxe  uses  the  phrase. 
The  peace  which  Walpole  sought  was  not  the  peace  of  the 
country,  but  the  peace  of  his  own  administration.  During 
the  greater  part  of  his  public  life,  indeed,  the  two  objects 
were  inseparably  connected.  At  length  he  was  reduced  to 
the  necessity  of  choosing  between  them,  of  plunging  the 
State  into  hostilities  for  which  there  "was  no  just  ground,  and 
by  which  nothing  was  to  be  got,  or  of  facing  a violent  op- 
position in  the  country,  in  Parliament,  and  even  in  the  royal 
closet.  No  person  was  more  thoroughly  convinced  than  he 
of  the  absurdity  of  the  cry  against  Spain.  But  his  darling 
power  was  at  stake,  and  his  choice  was  soon  made.  He 
preferred  an  unjust  war  to  a stormy  session.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  say  of  a Minister  who  acted  thus  that  the  love 
of  peace  was  the  one  grand  principle  to  which  all  his  con- 
duct is  to  be  referred.  The  governing  principle  of  his  con- 
duct was  neither  love  of  peace  nor  love  of  war,  but  love  of 
power. 

The  praise  to  which  he  is  fairly  entitled  is  this,  that  he 
understood  the  true  interest  of  his  country  better  than  any 
of  his  contemporaries,  and  that  he  pursued  that  interest 
whenever  it  was  not  incompatible  with  the  interests  of  his 
own  intense  and  grasping  ambition.  It  was  only  in  matters 
of  public  moment  that  he  shrank  from  agitation  and  had 
recourse  to  compromise.  In  his  contests  for  personal  in- 
fluence there  was  no  timidity,  no  flinching.  He  would  have 
all  or  none.  Every  member  of  the  Government  who  would 
not  submit  to  his  ascendency  was  turned  out  or  forced  to 
resign.  Liberal  of  everything  else,  he  was  avaricious  of 
power.  Cautious  everywhere  else,  when  power  was  at  stake, 
he  had  all  the  boldness  of  Richelieu  or  Chatham.  He  might 
easily  have  secured  his  authority  if  he  could  have  been  in- 
duced to  divide  it  with  others.  But  he  would  not  part  with 
one  fragment  of  it  to  purchase  defenders  for  all  the  rest. 
Tht  effect  of  this  policy  was  that  he  had  able  enemies  and 
feeble  allies.  His  most  distinguished  coadjutors  left  him 
one  by  one,  and  joined  the  ranks  of  the  Opposition.  He 


30  MACATTLAy’s  MISOKTjLAJTEOUS  WRITINGS. 

faced  the  increasing  array  of  his  enemies  with  unbroken 
spirit,  and  thought  it  far  better  that  they  should  attack  his 
power  than  that  they  should  share  it. 

The  Opposition  was  in  every  sense  formidable.  At  its 
head  were  two  royal  personages,  the  exiled  head  of  the  House 
of  Stuart,  the  disgraced  heir  of  the  House  of  Brunswick. 
One  set  of  members  received  directions  from  Avignon. 
Another  set  held  their  consultations  and  banquets  at  Norfolk 
House.  The  majority  of  the  landed  gentry,  the  majority 
of  the  parochial  clergy,  one  of  the  universities,  and  a 
strong  party  in  the  City  of  London  and  in  the  other 
great  towns,  were  decidedly  adverse  to  the  Government. 
Of  the  men  of  letters,  some  were  exasperated  by  the  ne- 
glect with  which  the  Minister  treated  them,  a neglect  which 
was  the  more  remarkable,  because  his  predecessors,  both 
Whig  and  Tory,  had  paid  court  with  emulous  munificence 
to  the  wits  and  the  poets ; others  were  honestly  inflamed  by 
party  zeal ; almost  all  lent  their  aid  to  the  Opposition.  In 
truth,  all  that  was  alluring  to  ardent  and  imaginative  minds 
was  on  that  side ; old  associations,  new  visions  of  political 
improvement,  high-flown  theories  of  loyalty,  high-flown  theo- 
ries of  liberty,  the  enthusiasm  of  the  Cavalier,  the  enthusiasm 
of  the  Roundhead.  The  Tory  gentleman,  fed  in  the  com- 
mon-rooms of  Oxford  with  the  doctrines  of  Filmer  and 
Sacheverell,  and  proud  of  the  exploits  of  his  great  grand- 
father, who  had  charged  with  Rupert  at  Marston,  who  had 
held  out  the  old  manor-house  against  Fairfax,  and  who, 
after  the  King’s  return,  had  been  set  down  for  a Knight  of 
the  Royal  Oak,  flew  to  that  section  of  the  opposition  which, 
under  pretence  of  assailing  the  existing  administration,  was 
in  truth  assailing  the  reigning  dynasty.  The  young  repub- 
lican, fresh  from  his  Livy  and  his  Lucan,  and  glowing  with 
admiration  of  Hampden,  of  Russell,  and  of  Sydney,  hastened 
with  equal  eagerness  to  those  benches  from  which  eloquent 
voices  thundered  nightly  against  the  tyranny  and  perfidy 
of  courts.  So  many  young  politicians  were  caught  by  these 
declamations  that  Sir  Robert,  in  one  of  his  best  speeches, 
observed  that  the  opposition  consisted  of  three  bodies,  the 
Tories,  the  discontented  Whigs,  who  were  known  by  the 
name  of  the  Patriots,  and  the  Boys.  In  fact  almost  every 
young  man  of  warm  temper  and  lively  imagination,  what- 
ever his  political  bias  might  be,  was  drawn  into  the  party 
adverse  to  the  Government ; and  some  of  the  most  distin- 
guished among  them,  Pitt,  for  example,  among  public  men* 


LLOKACE  WALPOLE. 


31 


and  Johnson,  among  men  of  letters,  afterwards  openly  ac- 
knowledged their  mistake. 

The  aspect  of  the  Opposition,  even  while  it  was  still  a mi- 
nority in  the  House  of  Commons,  was  very  imposing.  Among 
those  who,  in  Parliament  or  out  of  Parliament,  assailed 
the  administration  of  Walpole,  were  Bolingbroke,  Carteret, 
Chesterfield,  Argyle,  Pulteney,  Wyndhain,  Doddington, 
Pitt,  Lyttelton,  Barnard,  Pope,  Swift,  Gay,  Arbutlinot, 
Fielding,  Johnson,  Thomson,  Akenside,  Glover. 

The  circumstance  that  the  Opposition  was  divided  into 
two  parties,  diametrically  opposed  to  each  other  in  political 
opinions,  was  long  the  safety  of  Walpole.  It  was  at  last  his 
ruin.  The  leaders  of  the  minority  knew  that  it  would  be 
difficult  for  them  to  bring  forward  any  important  measure 
without  producing  an  immediate  schism  in  their  party.  It 
was  with  very  great  difficulty  that  the  Whigs  in  opposition 
had  been  induced  to  give  a sullen  and  silent  vote  for  the 
repeal  of  the  Septennial  Act.  The  Tories,  on  the  other 
hand,  could  not  be  induced  to  support  Pulteney’s  motion  for 
an  addition  to  the  income  of  Prince  Frederic.  The  two 
parties  had  cordially  joined  in  calling  out  for  a war  with 
Spain;  but  they  now  had  their  war.  Hatred  of  Walpole 
was  almost  the  only  feeling  which  was  common  to  them. 
On  this  one  point,  therefore,  they  concentrated  their  whole 
strength.  With  gross  ignorance,  or  gross  dishonesty,  they 
represented  the  Minister  as  the  main  grievance  of  the  state* 
His  dismissal,  his  punishment,  would  prove  the  certain  cure 
for  all  the  evils  which  the  nation  suffered.  What  was  to  be 
done  after  his  fall,  how  misgovernment  was  to  be  prevented 
in  future,  were  questions  to  which  there  were  as  many 
answers  as  there  were  noisy  and  ill-informed  members  of 
the  Opposition.  The  only  cry  in  which  all  could  join  was, 
“Down  with  Walpole!”  So  much  did  they  narrow  the 
disputed  ground,  so  purely  personal  did  they  make  the 
question,  that  they  threw  out  friendly  hints  to  the  .other 
members  of  the  Administration,  and  declared  that  they 
refused  quarter  to  the  Prime  Minister  alone.  His  tools 
might  keep  their  heads,  their  fortunes,  even  their  places,  if 
only  the  great  father  of  corruption  were  given  up  to  the  just 
vengeance  of  the  nation. 

If  the  fate  of  Walpole’s  colleagues  had  been  inseparably 
bound  up  with  his,  he  probably  would,  even  after  the  un- 
favorable elections  of  1741,  have  been  able  to  weather  the 
storm.  But  as  soon  as  it  was  understood  that  the  attack 


82  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

was  directed  against  him  alone,  and  that,  if  he  were  saori* 
Seed,  his  associates  might  expect  advantageous  and  honor* 
able  terms,  the  ministerial  ranks  began  to  wayer,  and  the 
murmur  of  sauve  qui  pent  was  heard.  That  Walpole  had 
foul  play  is  almost  certain,  but  to  what  extent  it  is  difficult 
to  say.  Lord  Islay  was  suspected;  the  Duke  of  Newcastle 
something  more  than  suspected.  It  would  have  been 
strange,  indeed,  if  his  Grace  had  been  idle  when  treason 
was  hatching. 

“ Ch*  i’  ho  de’  traditor’  sempre  sospetto, 

E Gan  fu  traditor  prima  clie  nato.” 

“ His  name,”  said  Sir  Robert,  “ is  perfidy.” 

Never  was  a battle  more  manfully  fought  than  the  last 
struggle  of  the  old  statesman.  His  clear  judgment,  his 
long  experience,  and  his  fearless  spirit,  enabled  him  to  main- 
tain a defensive  war  through  half  the  session.  To  the  last 
his  heart  never  failed  him  ; and  when  at  last  he  yielded,  he 
yielded  not  to  the  threats  of  his  enemies,  but  to  the  en- 
treaties of  his  dispirited  and  refractory  followers.  When 
he  could  no  longer  retain  his  power,  he  compounded  for 
honor  and  security,  and  retired  to  his  garden  and  his  paint- 
ings, leaving  to  those  who  had  overthrown  him  shame,  dis- 
cord, and  ruin. 

Everything  was  in  confusion.  It  has  been  said  that  the 
confusion  was  produced  by  the  dexterous  policy  of  Walpole  ; 
and,  undoubtedly,  he  did  his  best  to  sow  dissension  among 
his  triumphant  enemies.  3ut  there  was  little  for  him  to  do. 
Victory  had  completely  dissolved  the  hollow  truce,  which 
the  two  sections  of  the  Opposition  had  but  imperfectly  ob- 
served, even  while  the  event  of  the  contest  was  still  doubt- 
ful. A thousand  questions  were  opened  in  a moment.  A 
thousand  conflicting  claims  were  preferred.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  follow  any  line  of  policy  which  would  not  have  been 
offensive  to  a large  portion  of  the  successful  party.  It  was 
impossible  to  find  places  for  a tenth  part  of  those  who 
thought  that  they  had  a right  to  office.  While  the  parlia- 
mentary leaders  were  preaching  patience  and  confidence, 
while  their  followers  were  clamoring'  for  reward,  a still 
louder  voice  was  heard  from  without,  the  terrible  cry  of  a 
people  angry,  they  hardly  knew  with  whom,  and  impatient 
they  hardly  knew  for  what.  The  day  of  retribution  had 
arrived.  The  Opposition  reaped  that  which  they  had  sown. 

with  hat  red  and  eupidity,  despairing  of  sue  qm  by 


HORACE  WALPOLE. 


33 


any  ordinary  mode  of  political  warfare,  and  blind  to  conse- 
quences which,  though  remote,  were  certain,  they  had  con- 
jured up  a devil  whom  they  could  not  lay.  They  had  made 
the  public  mind  drunk  with  calumny  and  declamation. 
They  had  raised  expectations  which  it  was  impossible  to 
satisfy.  The  downfall  of  Walpole  was.  to  be  the  beginning 
of  a political  millennium  ; and  every  enthusiast  had  figured 
to  himself  that  millennium  according  to  the  fashion  of  his 
own  wishes.  The  republican  expected  that  the  power  of 
the  Crown  would  be  reduced  to  a mere  shadow,  the  high 
Tory  that  the  Stuarts  would  be  restored,  the  moderate  Tory 
that  the  golden  days  which  the  Church  and  the  landed  in- 
terest had  enjoyed  during  the  last  days  of  Queen  Anne, 
would  immediately  return.  It  would  have  been  impossible 
to  have  satisfied  everybody.  The  conquerors  satisfied  no- 
body. 

We  have  no  reverence  for  the  memory  of  those  who 
were  then  called  the  patriots.  We  are  for  the  principles  of 
good  government  against  Walpole,  and  for  Walpole  against 
the  Opposition.  It  was  most  desirable  that  a purer  system 
should  be  introduced ; but,  if  the  old  system  was  to  be  re- 
tained, no  man  was  so  fit  as  Walpole  to  be  at  the  head  of 
affairs.  There  were  grievous  abuses  in  the  government, 
abuses  more  than  sufficient  to  justify  a strong  opposition. 
But  the  party  opposed  to  Walpole,  while  they  stimulated  the 
popular  fury  to  the  highest  point,  were  at  no  pains  to  direct 
it  aright.  Indeed  they  studiously  misdirected  it.  They 
misrepresented  the  evil.  They  prescribed  inefficient  and 
pernicious  remedies.  They  held  up  a single  man  as  the 
sole  cause  of  all  the  vices  of  a bad  system  which  had  been 
in  full  operation  before  his  entrance  into  public  life,  and 
which  continued  to  be  in  full  operation  when  some  of  those 
very  brawlers  had  succeeded  to  his  power.  They  thwarted 
his  best  measures.  They  drove  him  into  an  unjustifiable 
war  against  his  will.  Constantly  talking  in  magnificent 
language  about  tyranny,  corruption,  wicked  ministers,  ser- 
vile courtiers,  the  liberty  of  Englishmen,  the  Great  Charter, 
the  rights  for  which  our  fathers  bled,  Timoleon,  Brutus, 
Hampden,  Sydney,  they  had  absolutely  nothing  to  propose 
which  would  have  been  an  improvement  on  our  institutions. 
Instead  of  directing  the  public  mind  to  definite  reforms 
which  might  have  completed  the  work  of  the  revolution, 
which  might  have  brought  the  legislature  into  harmony  with 
the  nation,  and  which  might  have  prevented  the  Crown  from 
Vol.  II.— 3.  _ 


84  macauiay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

doing  by  influence  what  it  could  no  longer  do  by  preroga- 
live,  they  excited  a vague  Graving  for  change,  by  which  they 
profited  for  a single  moment,  and  of  which,  as  they  well 
deserved,  they  were  soon  the  victims. 

Among  the  reforms  which  the  state  then  required,  there 
were  two  of  paramount  importance,  two  which  would  alone 
have  remedied  almost  every  gross  abuse,  and  without  which 
all  other  remedies  would  have  been  unavailing,  the  publicity 
of  parliamentary  proceedings,  and  the  abolition  of  the  rotten 
boroughs.  Neither  of  these  was  thought  of.  It  seems  to 
us  clear  that,  if  these  were  not  adopted,  all  other  measures 
would  have  been  illusory.  Some  of  the  patriots  suggested 
changes  which  would,  beyond  all  doubt,  have  increased  the 
existing  evils  a hundred  fold.  These  men  wished  to  trans- 
fer the  disposal  of  employments  and  the  command  of  the 
army  from  the  Crown  to  the  Parliament ; and  this  on  the 
very  ground  that  the  Parliament  had  long  been  a grossly 
corrupt  body.  The  security  against  malpractices  was  to  be 
that  the  members,  instead  of  having  a portion  of  the  pub- 
lic plunder  doled  out  to  them  by  a minister,  were  to  help 
themselves. 

The  other  schemes  of  which  the  public  mind  w^as  full 
were  less  dangerous  than  this.  Some  of  them  were  in 
themselves  harmless.  But  none  of  them  would  have  done 
much  good,  and  most  of  them  were  extravagantly  absurd. 
What  they  were  we  may  learn  from  the  instructions  which 
many  constituent  bodies,  immediately  after  the  change  of 
administration,  sent  up  to  their  representatives.  A more 
deplorable  collection  of  follies  can  hardly  be  imagined. 
There  is,  in  the  first  place,  a general  #ry  for  Walpole’s  head. 
Then  there  are  bitter  complaints  of  the  decay  of  trade,  a 
decay  which,  in  the  judgment  of  these  enlightened  polit  i 
cians,  was  brought  about  by  W alpole  and  corruption.  They 
would  have  been  nearer  to  the  truth  if  they  had  attributed 
their  sufferings  to  the  war  into  which  they  had  driven  Wal- 
pole against  his  better  judgment.  He  had  foretold  the  ef- 
fects of  his  unwilling  concession.  On  the  day  when  hostili- 
ties against  Spain  were  proclaimed,  when  the  heralds  were 
attended  into  the  city  by  the  chiefs  of  the  Opposition,  when 
the  Prince  of  Wales  liimself  stopped  at  Temple-Bar  to  drink 
success  to  the  English  arms,  the  Minister  heard  all  the  stee- 
ples of  the  city  jingling  with  a merry  peal,  and  muttered, 
a They  may  ring  the  bells  now : they  will  be  wringing  their 
hands  before  long.” 


HORACE  WALPOLE. 


Another  grievance,  for  which  of  course  Walpole  and 
corruption  were  answerable,  was  the  great  exportation  cf 
English  wool.  In  the  judgment  of  the  sagacious  electors  of 
several  large  towns,  the  remedying  of  this  evil  was  a matter 
second  only  in  importance  to  the  hanging  of  Sir  Robert. 
There  were  also  earnest  injunctions  that  the  members  should 
vote  against  standing  armies  in  time  of  peace,  injunctions 
which  were,  to  say  the  least,  ridiculously  unseasonable  in 
the  midst  of  a war  which  was  likely  to  last,  and  which  did 
actually  last,  as  long  as  the  Parliament.  The  repeal  of  the 
Septennial  Act,  as  was  to  be  expected,  was  strongly  pressed. 
Nothing  was  more  natural  than  that  the  voters  should  wish 
for  a triennial  recurrence  of  their  bribes  and  their  ale.  We 
feel  firmly  convinced  that  the  repeal  of  the  Septennial  Act, 
unaccompanied  by  a complete  reform  of  the  constitution  of 
the  elective  body,  would  have  been  an  unmixed  curse  to  the 
country.  The  only  rational  recommendation  which  we  can 
fina  in  all  these  instructions  is  that  the  number  of  placemen 
in  Parliament  should  be  limited,  and  that  pensioners  should 
not  be  allowed  to  sit  there.  It  is  plain,  however,  that  this 
cure  was  far  from  going  to  the  root  of  the  evil,  and  that,  if 
it  had  been  adopted  without  other  reforms,  secret  bribery 
would  probably  have  been  more  practised  than  ever. 

We  will  give  one  more  instance  of  the  absurd  expecta- 
tions which  the  declamations  of  the  Opposition  had  raised 
in  the  country.  Akenside  was  one  of  the  fiercest  and  most 
uncompromising  of  the  young  patriots  out  of  Parliament. 
When  he  found  that  the  change  of  administration  had  pro- 
duced no  change  of  system,  he  gave  vent  to  his  indignation 
in  the  a Epistle  to  Curio,”  the  best  poem  that  he  ever  wrote, 
a poem,  indeed,  which  seems  to  indicate,  that,  if  he  had  left 
lyric  composition  to  Gray  and  Collins,  and  had  employed 
his  powers  in  grave  and  elevated  satire,  he  might  have  dis- 
puted the  preeminence  of  Dry  den.  But  whatever  be  the 
literary  merits  of  the  epistle,  we  can  say  nothing  in  praise 
of  the  political  doctrines  which  it  inculcates.  The  poet,  in 
a rapturous  apostrophe  to  the  spirits  of  the  great  men  of 
antiquity,  tells  us  what  he  expected  from  Pulteney  at  the 
moment  of  the  fall  of  the  tyrant. 

“ See  private  life  by  wisest  arts  reclaimed, 

See  ardent  youth  to  noblest  manners  framed, 

See  us  achieve  whate’er  was  sought  by  you, 

If  Curio — only  Curio — will  be  true.” 

It  was  Pulteney’s  business,  it  seems,  to  abolish  faro  and 


36  majaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

masquerades,  to  stint  the  young  Duke  of  Marlborough  to  a 
bottle  of  brandy  a day,  and  to  prevail  on  Lady  Vane  to  be 
content  with  three  lovers  at  a time. 

Whatever  the  people  wanted,  they  certainly  got  nothing. 
Walpole  retired  in  safety ; and  the  multitude  were  defrauded 
of  the  expected  show  on  Tower  Ilill.  The  Septennial.  Act 
was  not  repealed.  The  placemen  were  not  turned  out 
of  the  House  of  Commons.  Wool,  we  believe,  was  still 
exported.  “ Private  life  ” afforded  as  much  scandal  as  if 
the  reign  of  Walpole  and  corruption  had  continued  ; and 
‘‘ardent  youth”  fought  with  watchmen  and  betted  with 
blacklegs  as  much  as  ever. 

The  colleagues  of  Walpole  had,  after  his  retreat,  admit- 
ted some  of  the  chiefs  of  the  Opposition  into  the  Govern- 
ment, and  soon  found  themselves  compelled  to  submit  to 
the  ascendency  of  one  of  their  new  allies.  This  was  Lord 
Carteret,  afterwards  Earl  Granville.  No  public  man  of  that 
age  had  greater  courage,  greater  ambition,  greater  activity, 
greater  talents  for  debate  or  for  declamation.  No  public 
man  had  such  profound  and  extensive  learning.  He  was 
familiar  with  the  ancient  writers,  and  loved  to  sit  up  till 
midnight  discussing  philological  and  metrical  questions 
with  Bentley.  His  knowledge  of  modern  languages  was 
prodigious.  The  privy  council,  when  he  was  present,  needed 
no  interpreter.  He  spoke  and  wrote  French,  Italian,  Span- 
ish, Portuguese,  German,  even  Swedish.  He  had  pushed 
his  researches  into  the  most  obscure  nooks  of  literature.  He 
was  as  familiar  with  Canonists  and  Schoolmen  as  with  ora- 
tors and  poets.  He  had  read  all  that  the  universities  of 
Saxony  and  Holland  had  produced  on  the  most  intricate 
questions  of  public  law.  Harte,  in  the  preface  to  the  second 
edition  of  his  History  of  Gustavus  Adolphus,  bears  a re- 
markable testimony  to  the  extent  and  accuracy  of  Lord 
Carteret’s  knowledge.  “ It  was  my  good  fortune  or  pru- 
dence to  keep  the  main  body  of  my  army  (or  in  other  words 
my  matters  of  fact)  safe  and  entire.  The  late  Earl  of  Gran- 
ville was  pleased  to  declare  himself  of  this  opinion ; especi- 
ally when  he  found  that  I had  made  Chemnitius  one  of  my 
principal  guides  ; for  his  Lordship  was  apprehensive  I might 
not  have  seen  that  valuable  and  authentic  book,  which  is 
extremely  scarce.  I thought  myself  happy  to  have  con- 
tented his  Lordship  even  in  the  lowest  degree : for  he  un- 
derstood the  German  and  Swedish  histories  to  the  highest 
perfection.” 


fifOBACE  WALPOLE. 


87 


With  all  his  learning,  Carteret  was  far  from  being  a pe- 
dant. His  was  not  one  of  those  cold  spirits  of  which  the 
fire  is  put  out  by  the  fuel.  In  council,  in  debate,  in  society, 
he  was  all  life  and  energy.  His  measures  were  strong, 
prompt,  and  daring,  his  oratory  animated  and  glowing.  His 
spirits  were  constantly  high.  No  misfortune,  public  or  pri- 
vate, could  depress  him.  He  was  at  once  the  most  unlucky 
and  the  happiest  public  man  of  his  time. 

He  had  been  Secretary  of  State  in  Walpole’s  Administra* 
tion,  and  had  acquired  considerable  influence  over  the  mind 
of  George  the  First.  The  other  ministers  could  speak  no 
German.  The  King  could  speak  no  English.  All  the  com- 
munications that  Walpole  held  with  his  master  was  in  very 
bad  Latin.  Carteret  dismayed  his  colleagues  by  the  volubil- 
ity with  which  he  addressed  his  Majesty  in  German.  They 
listened  with  envy  and  terror  to  the  mysterious  gutturals 
which  might  possibly  convey  suggestions  very  little  in  unison 
with  their  wishes. 

Walpole  was  not  a man  to  endure  such  a colleague  as 
Carteret.  The  King  was  induced  to  give  up  his  favorite. 
Carteret  joined  the  Opposition,  and  signalized  himself  at  the 
head  of  that  party  till,  after  the  retirement  of  his  old  rival, 
he  again  became  Secretary  of  State. 

During  some  months  he  was  chief  Minister,  indeed  sole 
Minister.  He  gained  the  confidence  and  regard  of  George 
the  Second.  He  was  at  the  same  time  in  high  favor  with 
the  Prince  of  Wales.  As  a debater  in  the  House  of  Lords, 
he  had  no  equal  among  his  colleagues.  Among  his  opponents, 
Chesterfield  alone  could  be  considered  as  his  match.  Con- 
fident in  his  talents,  and  in  the  royal  favor,  he  neglected  all 
those  means  by  which  the  power  of  Walpole  had  been 
created  and  maintained.  His  head  was  full  of  treaties  and 
expeditions,  of  schemes  for  supporting  the  Queen  of  Hun- 
gary, and  for  humbling  the  House  of  Bourbon.  He  con- 
temptuously abandoned  to  others  all  the  drudgery,  and,  with 
the  drudgery,  all  the  fruits  of  corruption.  The  patronage 
of  the  Church  and  of  the  Bar  he  left  to  the  Pelhams  as  a 
trifle  unworthy  of  his  care.  One  of  the  judges,  Chief  Justice 
Willes,  if  we  remember  rightly,  went  to  him  to  beg  some 
ecclesiastical  preferment  for  a friend.  Carteret  said,  that  he 
was  too  much  occupied  with  continental  politics  to  think 
about  the  disposal  of  places  and  benefices.  “ You  may  rely 
on  it,  then,”  said  the  Chief  Justice,  “ that  people  who  want 
places  and  benefices  will  go  to  those  who  have  more  leisure.5' 


88  MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

The  prediction  was  accomplished.  It  would  have  been  a 
busy  time  indeed  in  which  the  Pelhams  had  wanted  leisure 
for  jobbing ; and  to  the  Pelhams  the  whole  cry  of  place- 
hunters  and  pension-hunters  resorted.  The  parliamentary 
influence  of  the  two  brothers  became  stronger  every  day,  till 
at  length  they  were  at  the  head  of  a decided  majority  in  the 
House  of  Commons.  Their  rival,  meanwhile,  conscious  of 
his  powers,  sanguine  in  his  hopes,  and  proud  of  the  storm 
which  he  had  conjured  up  on  the  Continent,  would  brook 
neither  superior  nor  equal.  “ His  rants,”  says  Horace  Wal- 
pole, “ are  amazing ; so  are  his  parts  and  his  spirits.”  He 
encountered  the  opposition  of  his  colleagues,  not  with  the 
fierce  haughtiness  of  the  first  Pitt,  or  the  cold  unbending 
arrogance  of  the  second,  but  with  a gay  vehemence,  a good- 
humored  imperiousness,  that  bore  everything  down  before 
it.  The  period  of  his  ascendency  was  known  by  the  name 
of  the  “ Drunken  Administration  ; ” and  the  expression  was 
not  altogether  figurative.  His  habits  were  extremely  con- 
vivial ; and  champagne  probably  lent  its  aid  to  keep  him 
in  that  state  of  joyous  excitement  in  which  his  life  was 
passed. 

That  a rash  and  impetuous  man  of  genius  like  Carteret 
should  not  have  been  able  to  maintain  his  ground  in  Parlia- 
ment against  the  crafty  and  selfish  Pelhams  is  not  strange. 
But  it  is  less  easy  to  understand  why  he  should  have  been 
generally  unpopular  throughout  the  country.  His  brilliant 
talents,  his  bold  and  open  temper,  ought,  it  should  seem,  to 
have  made  him  a favorite  with  the  public.  But  the  people 
had  been  bitterly  disappointed  ; and  he  had  to  face  the  first 
burst  of  their  rage.  His  close  connection  with  Pulteney, 
now  the  most  detested  man  in  the  nation,  was  an  unfortunate 
circumstance.  He  had,  indeed,  only  three  partisans,  Pul- 
teney, the  King,  and  the  Prince  of  Wales,  a most  singular 
assemblage. 

lie  was  driven  from  his  office.  He  shortly  after  made  a 
bold,  indeed  a desperate,  attempt  to  recover  power.  The 
attempt  failed.  From  that  time  he  relinquished  all  ambitious 
hopes,  and  retired  laughing  to  his  books  and  his  bottle.  No 
statesman  ever  enjoyed  success  with  so  exquisite  a relish,  or 
submitted  to  defeat  with  so  genuine  and  unforced  a cheer- 
fulness. Ill  as  he  had  been  used,  he  did  not  seem,  says 
Horace  Walpole,  to  have  any  resentment,  or  indeed  any 
feeling  except  thirst. 

These  letters  contain  many  good  stories,  some  of  them. 


HORACE  WALPOLE. 


39 


no  doubt,  grossly  exaggerated,  about  Lord  Carteret ; how, 
in  the  height  of  his  greatness,  he  fell  in  love  at  first  sight  on 
a birthday  with  Lady  Sophia  Fermor,  the  handsome  daughter 
of  Lord  Pomfret ; how  he  plagued  the  Cabinet  every  day 
with  reading  to  them  her  ladyship’s  letters;  how  strangely 
he  brought  home  his  bride  ; what  fine  jewels  he  gave  her ; 
how  he  fondled  her  at  Ranelagli ; and  what  queen-like  state 
she  kept  in  Arlington  Street.  Horace  Walpole  has  spoken 
less  bitterly  of  Carteret  than  of  any  public  man  of  that  time, 
Fox  perhaps  excepted  ; and  this  is  the  more  remarkable,  be- 
cause Carteret  was  one  of  the  most  inveterate  enemies  of 
Sir  Robert.  In  the  Memoirs,  Horace  Walpole,  after  pass- 
ing in  review  all  the  great  men  whom  England  had  produced 
within  his  memory,  concludes  by  saying,  that  in  genius  none 
of  them  equalled  Lord  Granville.  Smollett,  in  Humphrey 
Clinker,  pronounces  a similar  judgment  in  coarser  language. 
“ Since  Granville  was  turned  out,  there  has  been  no  minister 
in  this  nation  worth  the  meal  that  whitened  his  periwig.” 
Carteret  fell ; and  the  reign  of  the  Pelhams  commenced. 
It  was  Carteret’s  misfortune  to  be  raised  to  power  when  the 
public  mind  was  still  smarting  from  recent  disappointment. 
The  nation  had  been  duped,  and  was  eager  for  revenge.  A 
victim  was  necessary,  and  on  such  occasions  the  victims  of 
popular  rage  are  selected  like  the  victim  of  Jephthah.  The 
first  person  who  comes  in  the  way  is  made  the  sacrifice. 
The  wrath  of  the  peojfie  had  now  spent  itself  ; and  the  un- 
natural excitement  was  succeeded  by  an  unnatural  calm. 
To  an  irrational  eagerness  for  something  new,  succeeded  an 
equally  irrational  disposition  to  acquiesce  in  everything 
established.  A few  months  back  the  people  had  been  dis- 
posed to  impute  every  crime  to  men  in  power,  and  to  lend 
a ready  ear  to  the  high  professions  of  men  in  opposition. 
They  were  now  disposed  to  surrender  themselves  implicitly 
tc  the  management  of  Ministers,  and  to  look  with  suspicion 
and  contempt  on  all  who  pretended  to  public  spirit.  The 
name  of  patriot  had  become  a by-word  of  derision.  Horace 
Walpole  scarcely  exaggerated  when  he  said  that,  in  those 
times,  the  most  popular  declaration  which  a candidate  could 
make  on  the  hustings  was  that  he  had  never  been  and  never 
would  be  a patriot.  At  this  conjuncture  took  place  the  re- 
bellion of  the  Highland  clans.  The  alarm  produced  by 
that  event  quieted  the  strife  of  internal  factions.  The  sup- 
pression of  the  insurrection  crushed  forever  the  spirit  of 
the  Jacobite  party.  Room  was  made  in  the  Government 


10  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

for  a few  Tories.  Peace  was  patched  up  with  France  and 
Spain.  Death  removed  the  Prince  of  Wales,  who  had  con- 
trived to  keep  together  a small  portion  of  that  formidable 
opposition  of  which  he  had  been  the  leader  in  the  time  of 
Sir  Robert  Walpole.  Almost  every  man  of  weight  in  the 
House  of  Commons  was  officially  connected  with  the  Gov- 
ernment. The  even  tenor  of  the  session  of  parliament  was 
ruffled  only  by  an  occasional  harangue  from  Lord  Egmont 
on  the  army  estimates.  For  the  first  time  since  the  acces- 
sion of  the  Stuarts  there  was  no  opposition.  This  singular 
good-fortune,  denied  to  the  ablest  statesmen,  to  Salisbury, 
to  Strafford,  to  Clarendon,  to  Somers,  to  WaljDole,  had  been 
reserved  for  the  Pelhams. 

Henry  Pelham,  it  is  true,  was  by  no  means  a contempt- 
ible person.  His  understanding  was  that  of  Walpole  on  a 
somewhat  smaller  sc*!e.  Though  not  a brilliant  orator,  he 
was,  like  his  master,  a good  debater,  a good  parliamentary 
tactician,  a good  man  of  business.  Like  his  master  he  dis- 
tinguished himself  by  the  neatness  and  clearness  of  his 
financial  expositions.  Here  the  resemblance  ceased.  Their 
characters  were  altogether  dissimilar.  Walpole  was  good- 
humored,  but  would  have  his  way : his  spirits  were  high, 
and  his  manners  frank  even  to  coarseness.  The  temper  of 
Pelham  was  yielding,  but  peevish : his  habits  were  regular, 
and  his  deportment  strictly  decorous.  Walpole  was  consti- 
tutionally fearless,  Pelham  constitutionally  timid.  Walpole 
had  to  face  a strong  opposition ; but  no  man  in  the  Govern- 
ment durst  wag  a finger  against  him.  Almost  all  the  oppo- 
sition which  Pelham  had  to  encounter  was  from  members 
of  the  Government  of  which  he  was  the  head.  His  own 
paymaster  spoke  against  his  estimates.  His  own  secretary- 
at-war  spoke  against  his  Regency  Bill.  In  one  day  Wal- 
pole turned  Lord  Chesterfield,  Lord  Burlington,  and  Lord 
Clinton  out  of  the  royal  household,  dismissed  the  highest 
dignitaries  of  Scotland  from  their  posts,  and  took  away  the 
regiments  of  the  Duke  of  Bolton  and  Lord  Cobham,  because 
he  suspected  them  of  having  encouraged  the  resistance  to 
his  Excise  Bill.  He  would  far  rather  have  contended  with 
the  smallest  minority,  under  the  ablest  leaders,  than  have 
tolerated  mutiny  in  his  own  party.  It  would  have  gone 
hard  with  any  of  his  colleagues,  who  had  ventured,  on  a 
Government  question,  to  divide  the  House  of  Commons 
against  him.  Pelham,  on  the  other  hand,  was  disposed  to 
bear  anything  rather  than  drive  from  office  any  man  round 


&0&ACE  WALP0L1L 


41 


whom  a new  opposition  could  form.  He  therefore  endured 
with  fretful  patience  the  insubordination  of  Pitt  and  Fox, 
He  thought  it  far  better  to  connive  at  their  occasional  in* 
fractions  of  discipline  than  to  hear  them,  night  after  night, 
thundering  against  corruption  and  wicked  ministers  from 
the  other  side  of  the  House. 

We  wonder  that  Sir  Walter  Scott  never  tried  his  hand 
on  the  Duke  of  Newcastle.  An  interview  between  his 
Grace  and  Jeanie  Deans  would  have  been  delightful,  and 
by  no  means  unnatural.  There  is  scarcely  any  public  man 
in  our  history  of  whose  manners  and  conversation  so  many 
particulars  have  been  preserved.  Single  stories  may  be  un- 
founded or  exaggerated.  But  all  the  stories  about  him, 
whether  told  by  people  who  were  perpetually  seeing  him  in 
Parliament  and  attending  his  levee  in  Lincoln’s  Inn  Fields, 
or  by  Grub  Street  writers  who  never  had  more  than  a 
glimpse  of  his  star  through  the  windows  of  his  gilded  coach, 
are  of  the  same  character.  Horace  Walpole  and  Smollett 
differed  in  their  tastes  and  opinions  as  much  as  two  human 
beings  could  differ.  They  kept  quite  different  society.  W al- 
pole  played  at  cards  with  countesses,  and  corresponded 
with  ambassadors.  Smollett  passed  his  life  surrounded  by 
printers’  devils  and  famished  scribblers.  Yet  Walpole’s 
Duke  and  Smollett’s  Duke  are  as  like  as  if  they  were  both 
from  one  hand.  Smollett’s  Newcastle  runs  out  of  his  dress- 
ing-room, with  his  face  covered  with  soap-suds  to  embrace 
the  Moorish  envoy.  Walpole’s  Newcastle  pushes  his  way 
into  the  Duke  of  Grafton’s  sick  room  to  kiss  the  old  noble- 
man’s plasters.  No  man  was  so  unmercifully  satirized.  But 
in  truth  he  wras  himself  a satire  ready  made.  All  that  the 
art  of  the  satirist  does  for  other  men,  nature  had  done  for 
him.  Whatever  was  absurd  about  him  stood  out  with  gro- 
tesque prominence  from  the  rest  of  the  character.  He  was 
a living,  moving,  talking  caricature.  His  gait  was  a shuf- 
fling trot ; his  utterance  a rapid  stutter ; he  was  always  in 
a hurry ; he  was  never  in  time  ; he  abounded  in  fulsome 
caresses  and  in  hysterical  tears.  His  oratory  resembled 
that  of  Justice  Shallow.  It  ivas  nonsense  effervescent  with 
animal  spirits  and  impertinence.  Of  his  ignorance  many 
anecdotes  remain,  some  well  authenticated,  some  probably 
invented  at  coffee-houses,  but  all  exquisitely  characteristic. 
“ Oh — yes — yes — to  be  sure — Annapolis  must  be  defended 
— troops  must  be  sent  to  Annapolis — Pray  where  is  Annap- 
olis ? ” — “ Cape  Breton  an  island ! wonderful ! show  it  me 


42  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

in  the  map.  So  it  is,  sure  enough.  My  clear  sir,  you  always 
bring  us  good  news.  I must  go  and  tell  the  King  that  Cape 
Breton  is  an  island.” 

And  this  man  was,  during  near  thirty  years,  Secretary 
of  State,  and,  -during  near  ten  years,  First  Lord  of  the 
Treasury ! His  large  fortune,  his  strong  hereditary  connec- 
tion, his  great  parliamentary  interest,  will  not  alone  explain 
this  extraordinary  fact.  His  success  is  a signal  instance  of 
what  may  be  effected  by  a man  who  devotes  his  whole 
heart  and  soul  without  reserve  to  one  object.  He  was  eaten 
up  by  ambition.  His  love  of  influence  and  authority  resem- 
bled the  avarice  of  the  old  usurer  in  the  Fortunes  of  Nigel. 
It  was  so  intense  a passion  that  it  supplied  the  place  of 
talents,  that  it  inspired  even  fatuity  with  cunning.  “ Have 
no  money  dealings  with  my  father,”  says  Martha  to  Lord 
Glenvarloch ; “ for,  dotard  as  he  is,  he  will  make  an  ass  of 
you.”  It  was  as  dangerous  to  have  any  political  connec- 
tion with  Newcastle  as  to  buy  and  sell  with  old  Trapbois. 
He  was  greedy  after  power  with  a greediness  all  his  own. 
He  was  jealous  of  all  his  colleagues,  and  even  of  his  own 
brother.  Under  the  disguise  of  levity  he  was  false  beyond 
all  example  of  political  falsehood.  All  the  able  men  of  his 
time  ridiculed  him  as  a dunce,  a driveller,  a child  who  never 
knew  his  own  mind  for  an  hour  together ; and  he  over- 
reached them  all  round. 

If  the  country  had  remained  at  peace,  it  is  not  impossible 
that  this  man  would  have  continued  at  the  head  of  affairs 
without  admitting  any  other  person  to  a share  cf  his  au- 
thority until  the  throne  was  filled  by  a new  Prince,  who 
brought  with  him  new  maxims  of  government,  new  favor- 
ites, and  a strong  will.  But  the  inauspicious  commencement 
of  the  Seven  Years’  War  brought  on  a crisis  to  which  New- 
castle was  altogether  unequal.  After  a calm  of  fifteen  years 
th3  spirit  of  the  nation  was  again  stirred  to  its  inmost 
depths.  In  a few  days  the  whole  aspect  of  the  political 
world  was  changed. 

But  that  change  is  too  remarkable  an  event  to  be  dis- 
cussed at  the  end  of  an  article  already  more  than  sufficiently 
long.  It  is  probable  that  we  may,  at  no  remote  time,  re- 
sume the  subject. 


WILLIAM  PITT,  HAUL  OF  CHATHAM. 


43 


WILLIAM  PITT,  EARL  OF  CHATHAM* 

( Edinburgh  Review , January , 1834.) 

Though  several  years  have  elapsed  since  the  publication 
of  this  work,  it  is  still,  we  believe,  a new  publication  to 
most  of  our  readers.  Nor  are  we  surprised  at  this.  The 
book  is  large,  and  the  style  heavy.  The  information  which 
Mr.  Thackeray  has  obtained  from  the  State  Paper  Office  is 
new  ; but  much  of  it  is  very  uninteresting.  The  rest  of  his 
narrative  is  very  little  better  than  Gifford’s  or  Tomline’s 
Life  of  the  second  Pitt,  and  tells  us  little  or  nothing  that 
may  not  be  found  quite  as  well  told  in  the  Parliamentary 
History,  the  Annual  Register,  and  other  works  equally  com- 
mon. 

Almost  every  mechanical  employment,  it  is  said,  has  a 
tendency  to  injure  some  one  or  other  of  the  bodily  organs 
of  the  artisan.  Grinders  of  cutlery  die  of  consumption  ; 
weavers  are  stunted  in  their  growth ; smiths  become  blear- 
eyed.  In  the  same  manner  almost  every  intellectual  em- 
ployment has  a tendency  to  produce  some  intellectual 
malady.  Biographers,  translators,  editors,  all,  in  short, 
who  employ  themselves  in  illustrating  the  lives  or  the 
writings  of  others,  are  peculiarly  exposed  to  the  Lues  Los - 
welliana , or  disease  of  admiration.  But  we  scarcely  remem- 
ber ever  to  have  seen  a patient  so  far  gone  in  this  distemper 
as  Mr.  Thackeray.  He  is  not  satisfied  with  forcing  us  to 
confess  that  Pitt  was  a great  orator,  a vigorous  minister,  an 
honorable  and  high-spirited  gentleman.  He  will  have  it 
that  all  virtues  and  all  accomplishments  met  in  his  hero. 
In  spite  of  Gods,  men,  and  columns,  Pitt  must  be  a poet,  a 
poet  capable  of  producing  a heroic  poem  of  the  first  order  \ 
and  we  are  assured  that  we  ought  to  find  many  charms  in 
such  lines  as  these  : — 

* A History  of  the  Right  Honorable  William  Pitt , Furl  of  Chatham , contain > 
ina  his  Speeches  in  Parliament,  a considerable  Portion  of  his  Correspondence 
when  Secretary  of  State , upon  French , Spanish , and  American  Affairs,  never 
before  published and  an  account  of  the  principal  Events  and  Persons  of  his  Time, 
connected  with  his  Life , Sentiments,  and  Administration . By  the  Buy.  Fbahois 
Thao  k ebay,  A.  M.  2 vols.  4to.  London  : 1827. 


44 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  whitings. 


**  Midst  all  the  tumults  of  the  warring  sphere, 

My  light-charged  bark  may  haply  glide, 

Some  gale  may  waft,  some  conscious  thought  shall  cheer, 

And  the  small  freight  uuanxious  glide * 

Pitt  was  in  tlie  army  for  a few  months  in  time  of  peace. 
Mr.  Thackeray  accordingly  insists  on  our  confessing  that,  if 
the  young  cornet  had  remained  in  the  service  he  would 
have  been  one  of  the  ablest  commanders  that  ever  lived. 
But  this  is  not  all.  Pitt,  it  seems,  was  not  merely  a great 
poet  in  esse , and  a great  general  in  posse , but  a finished  ex- 
ample of  moral  excellence,  the  just  man  made  perfect.  He 
was  in  the  right  when  he  attempted  to  establish  an  inquisi- 
tion, and  to  give  bounties  for  perjury,  in  order  to  get 
Walpole’s  head.  He  was  in  the  right  when  he  declared 
Walpole  to  have  been  an  excellent  minister.  He  was  in  the 
right  when,  being  in  opposition,  he  maintained  that  no 
peace  ought  to  be  made  with  Spain,  till  she  should  formally 
renounce  the  right  of  search.  He  was  in  the  right  when, 
being  in  office,  lie  silently  acquiesced  in  a treaty  by  which 
Spain  did  not  renounce  the  right  of  search.  When  he  left 
the  Duke  of  Newcastle,  when  he  coalesced  with  the  Duke 
of  Newcastle,  when  he  thundered  against  subsidies,  when 
he  lavished  subsidies  with  unexampled  profusion,  when  he 
execrated  the  Hanoverian  connection,  when  he  declared  that 
Hanover  ought  to  be  as  dear  to  us  as  Hampshire,  he  was 
still  invariably  speaking  the  language  of  a virtuous  and  en- 
lightened statesman. 

The  truth  is  that  there  scarcely  ever  lived  a person  who 
had  so  little  claim  to  this  sort  of  praise  as  Pitt.  He  was 
undoubtedly  a great  man.  But  this  was  not  a complete  and 
well-proportioned  greatness.  The  public  life  of  Hampden 
or  of  Somers  resembles  a regular  drama,  which  can  be 
criticized  as  a whole,  and  every  scene  of  which  is  to  be 
viewed  in  connection  with  the  main  action.  The  public 
life  of  Pitt,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a rude  though  striking 
piece,  a piece  abounding  in  incongruities,  a piece  without 
any  unity  of  plan,  but  redeemed  by  some  noble  passages, 
the  effect  of  which  is  increased  by  tameness  or  extravagance 
of  what  precedes  and  what  follows.  His  opinions  were  un- 
fixed. Iiis  conduct  at  some  of  the  most  important  conjunc- 
tures of  his  life  was  evidently  determined  by  pride  and 
resentment.  He  had  one  fault,  which  of  all  human  faults  is 
most  rarely  found  in  company  with  true  greatness.  He  was 

* The  quotation  is  faithfully  made  from  Mr.  Thackeray.  Perhaps  Pitt  wrota 
guide  in  the  fourth  line. 


WILLIAM  PITT,  EARL  OF  CHATHAM. 


45 


extremely  affected.  He  was  an  almost  solitary  instance  of 
a man  of  real  genius,  and  of  a brave,  lofty,  and  commanding 
spirit,  without  simplicity  of  character.  He  was  an  actor  in 
the  Closet,  an  actor  at  Council,  an  actor  in  Parliament ; and 
even  in  private  society  he  could  not  lay  aside  his  theatrical 
tones  and  attitudes.  We  know  that  one  of  the  most  distin- 
guished of  his  partisans  often  complained  that  he  could 
never  obtain  admittance  to  Lord  Chatham’s  room  till  every- 
thing was  ready  for  the  representation,  till  the  dresses  and 
properties  were  all  correctly  disposed,  till  the  light  was 
thrown  with  Rembrandt-like  effect  on  the  head  of  tlie  illus- 
trious performer,  till  the  flannels  had  been  arranged  with 
the  air  of  a Grecian  drapery,  and  the  crutch  placed  as  grace- 
fully as  that  of  Belisarius  or  Lear. 

Yet,  with  all  his  faults  and  affectations,  Pitt  had,  in  a 
very  extraordinary  degree,  many  of  the  elements  of  great- 
ness. He  had  genius,  strong  passions,  quick  sensibility,  and 
vehement  enthusiasm  for  the  grand  and  the  beautiful. 
There  was  something  about  him  which  ennobled  tergiversa- 
tion itself.  He  often  went  wrong,  very  wrong.  But,  to 
quote  the  language  of  Wordsworth, 

“ He  still  retained, 

’Mid  such  abasement,  what  he  had  received 

From  nature,  an  intense  and  glowing  mind.” 

In  an  age  of  low  and  dirty  prostitution,  in  the  age  of  Dod- 
ington  and  Sandys,  it  was  something  to  have  a man  who 
might  perhaps,  under  some  strong  excitement,  have  been 
tempted  to  ruin  his  country,  but  who  never  would  have 
stooped  to  pilfer  from  her,  a man  whose  errors  arose,  not 
from  a sordid  desire  of  gain,  but  from  a fierce  thirst  for 
power,  for  glory,  and  for  vengeance.  History  owes  to  him 
this  attestation,  that,  at  a time  when  anything  short  of  direct 
embezzlement  of  the  public  money  was  considered  as  quite 
fair  in  public  men,  he  showed  the  most  scrupulous  disinter- 
estedness ; that,  at  a time  when  it  seemed  to  be  generally 
taken  for  granted  that  Government  could  be  upheld  only  by 
the  basest  and  most  immoral  arts,  he  appealed  to  the  better 
and  nobler  part  of  human  nature  ; that  he  made  a brave  and 
splendid  attempt  to  do,  by  means  of  public  opinion,  what  no 
other  statesman  of  his  day  thought  it  possible  to  do,  except 
by  means  of  corruption ; that  he  looked  for  support,  not, 
like  the  Pelhams,  to  a strong  aristocratical  connection,  not, 
like  Bute,  to  the  personal  favor  of  the  sovereign,  but  to  the 
middle  class  of  Ea^iishmen  j that  he  inspired  that  class  with 


46 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


a firm  confidence  in  his  integrity  and  ability ; that,  backed 
by  them,  lie  forced  an  unwilling  court  and,  an  unwilling 
oligarchy  to  admit  him  to  an  ample  share  of  power;  and 
that  he  used  his  power  in  such  a manner  as  clearly  proved 
him  to  have  sought  it,  not  for  the  sake  of  profit  or  patronage, 
but  from  a wish  to  establish  for  himself  a great  and  durable 
reputation  by  means  of  eminent  services  rendered  to  the 
state. 

The  family  of  Pitt  was  wealthy  and  respectable.  His 
grandfather  was  Governor  of  Madias,  and  brought  back 
from  India  that  celebrated  diamond,  which  the  Regent  Or- 
leans, by  the  advice  of  Saint  Simon,  purchased  for  upwards 
of  two  million  of  livres,  and  which  is  still  considered  as  the 
most  precious  of  the  crown  jewels  of  France.  Governor 
Pitt  bought  estates  and  rotten  boroughs,  and  sat  in  the 
House  of  Commons  for  Old  Sarum.  Ilis  son  Robert  was  at 
one  time  member  for  Old  Sarum,  and  at  another  for  Oak- 
hampton.  Robert  had  two  sons.  Thomas,  the  elder,  inher- 
ited the  estates  and  parliamentary  interest  of  his  father. 
The  second  was  the  celebrated  William  Pitt. 

He  was  born  in  November,  1708.  About  the  early  part 
of  his  life  little  more  is  known  than  that  he  was  educated  at 
Eton,  and  that  at  seventeen  he  was  entered  at  Trinity  Col- 
lege, Oxford.  During  the  second  year  of  his  residence  at 
the  University,  George  the  First  died;  and  the  event  was, 
after  the  fashion  of  that  ^generation,  celebrated  by  the 
Oxonians  in  many  middling  copies  of  verses.  On  this  occa- 
sion Pitt  published  some  Latin  lines,  which  Mr.  Thackeray 
lias  preserved.  They  prove  that  the  young  student  had  but 
a very  limited  knowledge  even  of  the  mechanical  part  of 
his  art.  All  true  Etonians  will  hear  with  concern  that  their 
illustrious  school-fellow  is  guilty  of  making  the  first  syllable 
in  labenti  short.*  The  matter  of  the  poem  is  as  worthless  ns 
that  of  any  college  exercise  that  was  ever  written  before  oi 
since.  There  is,  of  course,  much  about  Mars,  Themis,  Nep- 
tune, and  Cocytus.  The  muses  are  earnestly  entreated  to 
weep  over  the  urn  of  Caesar ; for  Caesar,  says  the  Poet,  loved 
the  Muses;  Caesar,  who  could  not  read  a line  of  Pope,  and 
who  loved  nothing  but  punch  and  fat  women. 

Pitt  had  been,  from  his  school-days,  cruelly  tormented  by 
the  gout,  and  was  advised  to  travel  for  his  health.  He  ac- 
cordingly left  Oxford  without  taking  a degree,  and  visited 

• So  Mr.  Thackeray  baa  printed  the  poem.  B’-itit  may  be  charitably  hoped  that 
Pitt  w Labanti. 


WSMAAM  PITT,  UA1E  OF  CHATHAM* 

France  and  Italy.  He  returned,  however,  without  having 
received  much  benefit  from  his  excursion,  and  continued,  till 
the  close  of  his  life,  to  suffer  most  severely  from  his  constitu- 
tional malady. 

His  father  was  now  dead,  and  had  left  very  little  to  the 
younger  children.  It  was  necessary  that  William  should 
choose  a profession.  He  decided  for  the  army,  and  a cor- 
net’s commission  was  procured  for  him  In  the  Blues. 

But,  small  as  his  fortune  was,  his  family  had  both  the 
power  and  the  inclination  to  serve  him.  At  the  geneial 
election  of  1734,  his  elder  brother  Thomas  was  chosen  both 
for  Old  Sarum  and  for  Oakhampton.  When  Parliament 
met  in  1735,  Thomas  made  his  election  to  serve  for  Oak- 
hampton, and  William  was  returned  for  Old  Sarum. 

Walpole  had  now  been,  during  fourteen  years,  at  the 
head  of  affairs.  He  had  risen  to  power  under  the  most  fa- 
vorable circumstances.  The  whole  of  the  Whig  party,  of 
that  party  which  professed  peculiar  attachment  to  the  prin- 
ciples of  the  Revolution,  and  which  exclusively  enjoyed  the 
confidence  of  the  reigning  house,  had  been  united  in  sup- 
port of  his  administration.  Happily  for  him,  he  had  been 
out  of  office  when  the  South-Sea  Act  was  passed ; and 
though  he  does  not  appear  to  have  foreseen  all  the  conse- 
quences of  that  measure,  he  had  strenuously  opposed  it,  as 
he  had  opposed  all  the  measures,  good  and  bad,  of  Sunder- 
land’s administration.  When  the  South-Sea  Company  were 
voting  dividends  of  fifty  per  cent.,  when  a hundred  pounds 
of  their  stock  was  selling  for  eleven  hundred  pounds,  when 
Threadneedle  Street  was  daily  crowded  with  the  coaches  of 
dukes  and  prelates,  when  divines  and  philosophers  turned 
gamblers,  when  a thousand  kindred  bubbles  were  daily 
blown  into  existence,  the  periwig-company,  and  the  Spanish- 
jackass-company,  and  the  quicksilver-fixation-company,  Wal- 
pole’s calm  good  sense  preserved  him  from  the  general  infatu- 
ation. He  condemned  the  prevailing  madness  in  public,  and 
turned  a considerable  sum  by  taking  advantage  of  it  in 
private.  When  the  crash  came,  when  ten  thousand  families 
were  reduced  to  beggary  in  a day,  when  the  people,  in  the 
frenzy  of  their  rage  and  despair,  clamored,  not  only  against 
the  lower  agents  in  the  juggle,  but  against  the  Hanoverian 
favorites,  against  the  English  ministers,  against  the  King  him- 
self, when  Parliament  met,  eager  for  confiscation  and  blood, 
when  members  of  the  House  of  Commons  proposed  that  the 
directors  should  be  treated  like  parricides  in  ancient  Rome, 


48  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

tied  up  in  sacks,  and  thrown  into  the  Thames,  Walpole  was 
the  man  on  whom  all  parties  turned  their  eyes.  Four  years 
before  he  had  been  driven  from  power  by  the  intrigues  of 
Sunderland  and  Stanhope ; and  the  lead  in  the  House  oi 
Commons  had  been  intruste*d  to  Craggs  and  Aislabie.  Stan- 
hope was  no  more.  Aislabie  was  expelled  from  Parliament 
on  account  of  his  disgraceful  conduct  regarding  the  South- 
Sea  scheme.  Craggs  wras  perhaps  saved  by  a timely  death 
from  a similar  mark  of  infamy.  A large  minority  in  the 
House  of  Commons  voted  for  a severe  censure  on  Sunder- 
land, who,  finding  it  impossible  to  withstand  the  force  of 
the  prevailing  sentiment,  retired  from  office,  and  outlived 
his  retirement  but  a very  short  time.  The  schism  which  had 
divided  the  Whig  party  was  now  completely  healed.  Wal- 
pole had  no  opposition  to  encounter  except  that  of  the 
Tories  ; and  the  Tories  were  naturally  regarded  by  the  King 
with  the  strongest  suspicion  and  dislike. 

For  a time  business  went  on  with  a smoothness  and  a 
despatch  such  as  had  not  been  known  since  the  days  of  the 
Tu  dors.  During  the  session  of  1724,  for  example,  there 
was  hardly  a single  division  except  on  private  bills.  It  is 
not  impossible  that  by  taking  the  course  which  Pelham 
afterwards  took  by  admitting  into  the  government  all  the 
rising  talents  and  ambition  of  the  Whig  party,  and  by  mak- 
ing room  here  and  there  for  a Tory  not  unfriendly  to  the 
House  of  Brunswick,  Walpole  might  have  averted  the  tre- 
mendous conflict  in  which  he  passed  the  later  years  of  his 
administration,  and  in  which  he  was  at  length  vanquished. 
The  Opposition  which  overthrew  him  was  an  Opposition 
created  by  his  own  policy,  by  his  own  insatiable  love  of 
power. 

In  the  very  act  of  forming  his  Ministry  he  turned  one  of 
the  ablest  and  most  attached  of  his  supporters  into  a deadly 
enemy.  Pulteney  had  strong  public  and  private  claims  to 
a high  situation  in  the  new  arrangement.  His  fortune  was 
immense.  His  private  character  was  respectable.  He  was 
already  a distinguished  speaker.  He  had  acquired  official 
experience  in  an  important  post.  He  had  been,  through  ail 
changes  of  fortune,  a consistent  Whig.  When  the  Whig 
party  was  split  into  two  sections,  Pulteney  had  resigned  a 
valuable  place,  and  had  followed  the  fortunes  of  Walpole. 
Yet,  when  Walpole  returned  to  power,  Pulteney  was  not 
invited  to  take  office.  An  angry  discussion  took  place  be- 
tween the  friends.  The  Ministry  offered  a peerage.  It  was 


WILLIAM  £ITT,  UAtlt  Otf  CH  A I’M  AM. 


49 

impossible  for  Pulteney  not  to  discern  the  motive  of  such 
an  offer.  He  indignantly  refused  to  accept  it.  For  some 
time  he  continued  to  brood  over  his  wrongs,  and  to  watch 
for  an  opportunity  of  revenge.  As  soon  as  a favorable  com 
juncture  arrived  he  joined  the  minority,  and  became  the 
greatest  leader  of  Opposition  that  the  House  of  Commons 
had  ever  seen. 

Of  all  the  members  of  the  Cabinet  Carteret  was  the  most 
eloquent  and  accomplished.  His  talents  for  debate  were  of 
the  first  order ; his  knowledge  of  foreign  affairs  was  supe- 
rior to  that  of  any  living  statesman  ; his  attachment  to  the 
Protestant  succession  was  undoubted.  But  there  was  not 
room  in  one  Government  for  him  and  Walpole.  Carteret 
retired,  and  was,  from  that  time  forward,  one  of  the  most 
persevering  and  formidable  enemies  of  his  old  colleague. 

If  there  was  any  man  with  whom  Walpole  could  have 
consented  to  make  a partition  of  power,  that  man  was  Lord 
Townshend.  They  were  distant  kinsmen  by  birth,  near 
kinsmen  by  marriage.  They  had  been  friends  from  child- 
hood. They  had  been  school-fellows  at  Eton.  They  were 
country  neighbors  in  Norfolk.  They  had  been  in  office  to- 
gether under  Godolphin.  They  had  gone. into  opposition 
together  when  Harley  rose  to  power.  They  had  been  per- 
secuted by  the  same  House  of  Commons.  "They  had,  after 
the  death  of  Anne,  been  recalled  together  to  office.  They 
had  again  been  driven  out  together  by  Sunderland,  ai\d  had 
again  come  back  together  when  the  influence  of  Sunderland 
‘had  declined.  Their  opinions  on  public  affairs  almost 
always  coincided.  They  were  both  men  of  frank,  generous, 
and  compassionate  natures.  Their  intercourse  had  been  for 
many  years  affectionate  and  cordial.  But  the  tics  of  blood, 
of  marriage,  and  of  friendship,  the  memory  of  mutual  ser- 
vices, the  memory  of  common  triumphs  and  common  dis- 
asters, were  insufficient  to  restrain  that  ambition  which  domi- 
neered over  all  the  virtues  and  vices  of  Walpole.  He  was 
resolved,  to  use  his  own  metaphor,  that  the  firm  of  the 
house  should  be,  not  Townshend  and  Walpole,  but  Walpole 
and  Townshend.  At  length  the  rivals  proceeded  to  personal 
abuse  before  a large  company,  seized  each  other  by  the  col- 
lar, and  grasped  their  swords.  The  women  squalled.  The 
men  parted  the  combatants.  By  friendly  intervention  the 
scandal  of  a duel  between  cousins,  brothers-in-law,  old 
friends,  and  old  colleagues,  was  prevented.  But  the  dis- 
putants could  not  long  continue  to  act  together.  Town- 
Vol.  II.  —4 


80  macaitlay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

shend  retired,  and,  with  rare  moderation  and  public  spirit 
refused  to  take  any  part  in  politics.  He  could  not,  he  said, 
trust  his  temper.  He  feared  that  the  recollection  of  his. 
private  wrongs  might  impel  him  to  follow  the  example  of 
Pulteney,  and  to  oppose  measures  which  he  thought  gen- 
erally beneficial  to  the  country.  He  therefore  never  visited 
London  after  his  resignation,  but  passed  the  closing  yearn 
of  his  life  in  dignity  and  repose  among  his  trees  and  pic- 
tu res  at  Rainham. 

Next  went  Chesterfield.  He  too  was  a Whig  and  a 
friend  of  the  Protestant  succession.  He  was  an  orator,  a 
courtier,  a wit,  and  a man  of  letters.  He  was  at  the  head 
of  ton  in  days  when,  in  order  to  be  at  the  head  of  ton , 
it  was  not  sufficient  to  be  dull  and  supercilious.  It  was 
evident  that  he  submitted  impatiently  to  the  ascendency 
of  Walpole.  He  murmured  against  the  Excise  Bill.  His 
brothers  voted  against  it  in  the  House  of  Commons.  The 
Minister  acted  with  characteristic  caution  and  characteristic 
energy;  caution  in  the  conduct  of  public  affairs;  energy 
where  his  own  supremacy  was  concerned.  He  withdrew 
his  Bill,  and  turned  out  all  his  hostile  or  wavering  colleagues. 
Chesterfield  was  stopped  on  the  great  staircase  of  St.  James’s 
and  summoned  to  deliver  up  the  staff  which  he  bore  as  Lord 
Steward  of  the  Household.  A crowd  of  noble  and  powerful 
functionaries,  the  Dukes  of  Montrose  and  Bolton,  Lord  Bur- 
lington, Lord  Stair,  Lord  Cobham,  Lord  Marchmont,  Lord 
Clinton,  were  at  the  same  time  dismissed  from  the  service 
of  the  Crown. 

Not  long  after  these  events  the  Opposition  was  reinforced 
by  the  Duke  of  Argyle,  a man  vainglorious  indeed  and 
fickle,  but  brave,  eloquent,  and  popular.  It  was  in  a great 
measure  owing  to  his  exertions  that  the  Act  of  Settlement 
bad  been  peaceably  carried  into  effect  in  England  immedi- 
ately after  the  death  of  Anne,  and  that  the  Jacobite  rebel- 
lion which  during  the  following  year,  broke  out  in  Scotland, 
had  been  suppressed.  He  too  carried  over  to  the  minority 
the  aid  of  his  great  name,  his  talents,  and  his  paramount 
influence  in  his  native  country. 

In  each  of  these  cases  taken  separately,  a skilful  defender 
of  Walpole  might  perhaps  make  out  a case  for  him.  But 
when  we  see  that  during  a long  course  of  years  all  the  foot- 
steps are  turned  the  same  way  that  all  the  most  eminent  of 
those  public  men  who  agreed  with  the  Minister  in  their 
general  views  of  policy  left  him,  one  after  another,  with  sore 


"W'xLLIAM  PAX T,  EABL  OF  CHATHAM* 


51 


and  irritated  minds,  we  find  it  impossible  not  to  believe  that 
the  real  explanation  of  the  phenomenon  is  to  be  found  in 
the  words  of  his  son,  “ Sir  Robert  Walpole  loved  power 
so  much  that  he  would  not  endure  a rival.”  Hume  had 
described  this  famous  minister  with  great  felicity  in  one 
short  sentence, — 46  moderate  in  exercising  power,  not  equit- 
able in  engrossing  it.”  Kind-hearted,  jovial,  and  placable  as 
Walpole  was,  he  was  yet  a man  with  whom  no  person  of  high 
pretensions  and  high  spirit  could  long  continue  to  act.  lie 
had,  therefore,  to  stand  against  an  Opposition  containing 
all  the  most  accomplished  statesmen  of  the  age,  with  no 
better  support  than  that  which  he  received  from  persons 
like  his  brother  Horace  or  Henry  Pelham,  whose  indus- 
trious mediocrity  gave  no  cause  for  jealousy,  or  from  clever 
adventurers,  whose  situation  and  character  diminished  the 
dread  which  their  talents  might  have  inspired.  To  this  last 
class  belonged  Fox,  who  was  too  poor  to  live  without  office ; 
Sir  William  Yonge,  of  whom  Walpole  himself  said,  that 
nothing  but  such  parts  could  buoy  up  such  a character,  and 
that  nothing  but  such  a character  could  drag  down  such 
parts ; and  Winnington,  whose  private  morals  lay,  justly  or 
unjustly,  under  imputations  of  the  worst  kind. 

The  discontented  Whigs  were,  not  perhaps  in  num- 
ber, but  certainly  in  ability,  experience,  and  weight,  by  far 
the  most  important  part  of  the  Opposition.  The  Tories  fur- 
nished little  more  than  rows  of  ponderous  foxhunters,  fat 
with  Staffordshire  or  Devonshire  ale,  men  who  drank  to  the 
King  over  the  water,  and  believed  that  all  the  fundholders 
were  Jews,  men  whose  religion  consisted  in  hating  the  Dis- 
senters, and  whose  political  researches  had  led  them  to  fear, 
like  Squire  Western,  that  their  land  might  be  sent  over  to 
Hanover  to  be  put  in  the  sinking-fund.  The  eloquence  of 
these  zealous  squires,  the  remnant  of  the  once  formidable 
October  Club,  seldom  went  beyond  a hearty  Ay  or  Ho* 
Very  few  members  of  this  party  had  distinguished  them* 
selves  much  in  Parliament,  or  could,  under  any  circum- 
stances, have  been  called  to  fill  any  high  office ; and  those 
few  had  generally,  like  Sir  William  Wyndham,  learned  in 
the  company  of  their  new  associates  the  doctrines  of  tolera- 
tion and  political  liberty,  and  might  indeed  with  strict  pro- 
priety be  called  Whigs. 

It  was  to  the  Whigs  in  opposition,  the  Patriots,  as  they 
were  called,  that  the  most  distinguished  of  the  English 
youth  who  at  this  season  entered  into  public  life  attached 


52 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


themselves.  These  inexperienced  politicians  felt  all  the  en- 
thusiasm which  the  name  of  liberty  naturally  excites  in 
young  and  ardent  minds.  They  conceived  that  the  theory 
of  the  Tory  Opposition  and  the  practice  of  Walpole’s  Gov- 
ernment were  alike  inconsistent  with  the  principles  of  liberty. 
They  accordingly  repaired  to  the  standard  which  Pulteney 
had  set  up.  While  opposing  the  Whig  minister,  they  pro- 
fessed a firm  adherence  to  the  purest  doctrines  of  Whiggism. 
He  was  the  schismatic ; they  were  the  true  Catholics,  the 

i)eculiar  people,  the  depositaries  of  the  orthodox  faith  of 
dampden  and  Russell,  the  one  sect  which,  amidst  the  cor- 
ruptions generated  by  time  and  by  the  long  possession  of 
power,  had  preserved  inviolate  the  principles  of  the  Revolu- 
tion. Of  the  young  men  who  attached  themselves  to  this 
portion  of  the  Opposition  the  most  distinguished  were 
Lyttelton  and  Pitt. 

When  Pitt  entered  Parliament  the  whole  political  world 
was  attentively  watching  the  progress  of  an  event  which 
soon  added  great  strength  to  the  Opposition,  and  particularly 
to  that  section  of  the  opposition  in  which  the  young  states- 
man enrolled  himself.  The  Prince  of  W ales  was  gradually 
becoming  more  and  more  estranged  from  his  father  and  his 
father’s  ministers,  and  more  and  more  friendly  to  the  Pa- 
triots. 

Nothing  is  more  natural  than  that,  in  a monarchy  where 
a constitutional  Opposition  exists,  the  heir-apparent  of  the 
throne  should  put  himself  at  the  head  of  that  Opposition. 
He  is  impelled  to  such  a course  by  every  feeling  of  ambition 
and  of  vanity.  He  cannot  be  more  than  second  in  the  esti- 
mation of  the  party  which  is  in.  lie  is  sure  to  be  the  first 
member  of  the  party  which  is  out.  The  highest  favor  which 
the  existing  administration  can  expect  from  him  is  that  he 
will  not  discard  them.  But,  if  he  joins  the  Opposition,  all 
his  associates  expect  that  he  will  promote  them  ; and  the 
feelings  which  men  entertain  towards  one  from  whom  they 
hope  to  obtain  great  advantages  which  they  have  not  are 
far  warmer  than  the  feelings  with  which  they  regard  one 
who,  at  the  very  utmost,  can  only  leave  them  in  possession 
of  what  they  already  have.  An  heir-apparent,  therefore, 
who  wishes  to  enjoy,  in  the  highest  perfection,  all  the  pleas- 
ure that  can  be  derived  from  eloquent  flattery  and  profound 
respect,  will  always  join  those  who  are  struggling  to  force 
themselves  into  power.  This  is,  we  believe,  the  true  ex- 
planation of  a fact  which  Lord  Granville  attributed  to  some 


WILLIAM  PITT,  EARL  OF  CHATHAM. 


53 


natural  peculiarity  in  the  illustrious  House  of  Brunswick. 
“ This  family,”  said  he  at  Council,  we  suppose  after  his  daily 
half-gallon  of  Burgundy,  “ always  has  quarrelled,  and  always 
will  quarrel,  from  generation  to  generation.”  He  should 
have  known  something  of  the  matter ; for  he  had  been  a 
favorite  with  three  successive  generations  of  the  royal  house. 
We  cannot  quite  admit  liis  explanation;  but  the  fact  is 
indisputable.  Since  the  accession  of  George  the  First,  there 
have  been  four  Princes  of  Wales,  and  they  have  all  been 
almost  constantly  in  Opposition. 

Whatever  might  have  been  the  motives  which  induced 
Prince  Frederic  to  join  the  party  opposed  to  the  government, 
his  support  infused  into  many  members  of  that  party  a cour- 
age and  an  energy  of  which  they  stood  greatly  in  need. 
Hitherto  it  had  been  impossible  for  the  discontented  Whigs 
not  to  feel  some  misgivings  when  they  found  themselves 
dividing,  night  after  night,  with  uncompromising  Jacobites 
who  were  known  to  be  in  constant  communication  with  the 
exiled  family,  or  with  Tories  who  had  impeached  Somers, 
who  had  murmured  against  Harley  and  St.  John  as  too  re- 
miss in  the  cause  of  the  Church  and  the  landed  interest,  and 
who,  if  they  were  not  inclined  to  attack  the  reigning  family, 
yet  considered  the  introduction  of  that  family  as,  at  best, 
only  the  less  of  two  great  evils,  as  a necessary  but  painful 
and  humiliating  preservative  against  Popery.  The  minister 
might  plausibly  say  that  Pulteney  and  Carteret,  in  the  hope 
of  gratifying  their  own  appetite  for  office  and  for  revenge, 
did  not  scruple  to  serve  the  purposes  of  a faction  hostile  to 
the  Protestant  succession.  The  appearance  of  Frederic  at 
the  head  of  the  patriots  silenced  this  reproach.  The  leaders 
of  the  Opposition  might  now  boast  that  their  course  was 
sanctioned  by  a person  as  deeply  interested  as  the  King  him- 
self in  maintaining  the  Act  of  Settlement,  and  that,  instead 
of  serving  the  purposes  of  the  Tory  party,  they  had  brought 
that  party  over  to  the  side  of  Whiggism.  It  must  indeed  bo 
admitted  that,  though  both  the  King  and  the  Prince  be- 
haved in  a manner  little  to  their  honor,  though  the  father 
acted  harshly,  the  son  disrespectfully,  and  both  childishly, 
the  royal  family  was  rather  strengthened  than  weakened  by 
the  disagreement  of  its  two  most  distinguished  members* 
A large  class  of  politicians,  who  had  considered  themselves 
as  placed  under  sentence  of  perpetual  exclusion  from  office, 
and  who,  in  their  despair,  had  been  almost  ready  to  join  in 
a counter-revolution  as  the  only  mode  of  removing  the  pro* 


54  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

seription  under  which  they  lay,  now  saw  with  pleasure  an 
easier  and  safer  road  to  power  opening  before  them,  and 
thought  it  far  better  to  wait  till,  in  the  natural  course  of 
things,  the  Crown  should  descend  to  the  heir  of  the  House 
of  Brunswick,  than  to  risk  their  lands  and  their  necks  in  a 
rising  of  the  House  of  Stuart.  The  situation  of  the  royal 
family  resembled  the  situation  of  those  Scotch  families  in 
which  father  and  son  took  opposite  sides  during  the  rebel- 
lion, in  order  that,  come  what  might,  the  estate  might  not 
be  forfeited. 

In  April,  1T36,  Frederic  was  married  to  the  Princess  of 
Saxe  Gotha,  with  whom  he  afterwards  lived  on  terms  very 
similar  to  those  on  which  his  father  had  lived  with  Queen 
Caroline.  The  Prince  adored  his  wife,  and  thought  her  in 
mind  and  person  the  most  attractive  of  her  sex.  But  he 
thought  that  conjugal  fidelity  was  an  unprinccly  virtue ; 
and.  in  order  to  be  like  Henry  the  Fourth,  and  the  Regent 
Orleans,  he  affected  a libertinism  for  which  he  had  no  taste, 
and  frequently  quitted  the  only  woman  he  loved  for  ugly 
and  disagreeable  mistresses. 

The  address  which  the  House  of  Commons  presented  to 
the  King  on  the  occasion  of  the  Prince’s  marriage  was 
moved,  not  by  the  Minister,  but  by  Pulteney,  the  leader  of 
the  Whigs  in  Opposition.  It  was  on  this  motion  that  Pitt, 
who  had  not  broken  silence  during  the  session  in  which  he 
took  his  seat,  addressed  the  House  for  the  first  time.  a A 
contemporary  historian,”  says  Mr.  Thackery,  “ describes 
Mr.  Pitt’s  first  speech  as  superior  even  to  the  models  of 
ancient  eloquence.  According  to  Tindal,  it  was  more  orna- 
mented than  the  speeches  of  Demosthenes,  and  less  diffuse 
than  those  of  Cicero.”  This  unmeaning  phrase  has  been  a 
hundred  times  quoted^  That  it  should  ever  have  been 
quoted,  except  to  be  laughed  at,  is  strange.  The  vogue 
which  it  has  obtained  may  serve  to  show  in  how  slovenly  a 
way  most  people  are  content  to  think.  Did  Tindal,  who 
first  used  it,  or  Archdeacon  Coxe  and  Mr.  Thackery,  who 
have  borrowed  it,  ever  in  their  lives  hear  any  speaking  which 
did  not  deserve  the  same  compliment?  Did  they  ever  hear 
speaking  less  ornamented  than  that  of  Demosthenes,  or  more 
diffuse  than  that  of  Cicero?  We  know  no  living  orator, 
from  Lord  Brougham  down  to  Dr.  Hunt,  who  is  not  entitled 
to  the  same  eulogy.  It  would  be  no  very  flattering  compli- 
ment to  a man’s  figure  to  say,  that  he  was  taller  than  the 
Polish  Count,  and  shorter  than  Giant  O’Brien,  fatter  than 


65 


WILLIAM  PITT,  EARL  OP  CHATHAM. 

the  Anatomie  Vivante , and  more  slender  than  Daniel  Lam- 
bert. 

Pitt’s  speech,  as  it  is  reported  in  the  Gentleman’s  Maga- 
zine, certainly  deserves  Tindal’s  compliment,  and  deserves 
no  other.  It  is  just  as  empty  and  wordy  as  a maiden  speech 
on  such  an  occasion  might  be  expected  to  be.  But  the 
fluency  and  the  personal  advantages  of  the  young  orator 
instantly  caught  the  ear  and  eye  of  his  audience.  He  was, 
from  the  day  of  his  first  appearance,  always  heard  with 
attention  ; and  exercise  soon  developed  the  great  powers 
which  he  possessed. 

In  our  time,  the  audience  of  a member  of  Parliament  is 
the  nation.  The  three  or  four  hundred  persons  who  may 
be  present  while  a speech  is  delivered  may  be  pleased  or 
disgusted  by  the  voice  and  action  of  the  orator ; but,  in  the 
reports  which  are  read  the  next  day  by  hundreds  of  thous- 
ands, the  difference  between  the  noblest  and  the  meanest 
figure,  between  the  richest  and  the  shrillest  tones,  between 
the  most  graceful  and  the  most  uncouth  gesture,  altogether 
vanishes.  A hundred  years  ago,  scarcely  any  report  of  what 
passed  within  the  walls  of  the  House  of  Commons  was  suf- 
fered to  get  abroad.  In  those  times,  therefore,  the  impres- 
sion which  a speaker  might  make  on  the  persons  who 
actually  heard  him  was  everything.  His  fame  out  of  doors 
depended  entirely  on  the  report  of  those  who  were  within 
the  doors.  In  the  Parliaments  of  that  time,  therefore,  as 
in  the  ancient  commonwealths,  those  qualifications  which 
enhanced  the  immediate  effect  of  a speech,  were  far  more 
important  ingredients  in  the  composition  of  an  orator  than 
at  present.  All  those  qualifications  Pitt  possessed  in  the 
highest  degree.  On  the  stage,  he  would  have  been  the 
finest  Brutus  or  Coriolanus  ever  seen.  Those  who  saw  him 
in  his  decay,  when  his  health  was  broken,  when  his  mind 
was  untuned,  when  he  had  been  removed  from  that  stormy 
assembly  of  which  he  thoroughly  knew  the  temper,  and 
over  which  he  possessed  unbounded  influence,  to  a small,  a 
torpid,  and  an  unfriendly  audience,  say  that  his  speaking 
was  then,  for  the  most  part,  a low,  monotonous  muttering, 
audible  only  to  those  who  sat  close  to  him,  that  when  vio- 
lently excited,  he  sometimes  raised  his  voice  for  a few 
minutes,  but  that  it  soon  sank  again  into  an  unintelligible 
murmur.  Such  was  the  Earl  of  Chatham ; but  such  w'as 
not  William  Pitt.  Ilis  figure,  when  he  first  appeared  in 
Parliament,  was  strikingly  graceful  and  commanding,  his 


56  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  whitings. 

features  high  and  noble,  his  eye  full  of  fire.  His  voiea 
even  when  it  sank  to  a whisper,  was  heard  to  the  remotest 
benches  ; and  when  he  strained  it  to  its  full  extent,  the  sound 
rose  like  the  swell  of  the  organ  of  a great  cathedral,  shook 
the  house  with  its  peal,  and  was  heard  through  lobbies  and 
down  staircases,  to  the  Court  of  Requests  and  the  precincts 
of  Westminster  Hall.  He  cultivated  all  those  eminent  ad- 
vantages with  the  most  assiduous  care.  His  action  is  de- 
scribed by  a very  malignant  observer  as  equal  to  that  of 
Garrick.  His  play  of  countenance  was  wonderful ; he  fre- 
quently disconcerted  a hostile  orator  by  a single  glance  of 
indignation  or  scorn.  Every  tone,  from  the  impassioned  cry 
to  the  thrilling  aside,  was  perfectly  at  his  command.  It  is  by 
no  means  improbable  that  the  pains  which  he  took  to  im- 
prove his  great  personal  advantages  had,  in  some  re- 
spects, a prejudicial  operation,  and  tended  to  nourish  in 
him  that  passion  for  theatrical  effect,  as  we  have  already 
remarked,  was  one  of  the  most  conspicuous  blemishes  in  his 
character. 

But  it  was  not  solely  or  principally  to  outward  accom- 
plishments that  Pitt  owed  the  vast  influence  which,  during 
nearly  thirty  years,  he  exercised  over  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. He  was  undoubtedly  a great  orator  ; and,  from  the 
descriptions  given  by  his  contemporaries,  and  the  fragments 
of  his  speeches  which  still  remain,  it  is  not  difficult  to  dis- 
cover the  nature  and  extent  of  his  oratorical  powers. 

He  was  no  speaker  of  set  speeches.  His  few  prepared 
discourses  were  complete  failures.  The  elaborate  panegyric 
which  he  pronounced  on  General  Wolfe  was  considered  as 
the  very  worst  of  all  his  performances.  “No  man,”  says  a 
critic  who  had  often  heard  him,  “ ever  knew  so  little  what 
lie  was  going  to  say.”  Indeed  his  facility  amounted  to  a 
vice.  He  was  not  the  master,  but  the  slave  of  his  own 
speech.  So  little  self-command  had  he  when  once  he  felt 
the  impulse,  that  he  did  not  like  to  take  part  in  a debate 
when  his  mind  was  full  of  an  important  secret  of  state. 
“ I must  sit  still,”  he  once  said  to  Lord  Shelburne  on  such 
such  an  occasion  ; “ for,  when  once  I am  up,  everything 
that  is  in  my  mind  comes  out.” 

Yet  he  was  not  a great  debater.  That  he  should  not 
have  been  so  when  first  he  entered  the  House  of  Commons 
is  not  strange.  Scarcely  any  person  has  ever  become  so 
without  long  practice  and  many  failures.  It  was  by  slow  de- 
grees, as  Burke  said,  that  Charles  Fox  became  the  most 


WILLIAM  FITT,  EARL  OF  CHATHAM,  S / 

brilliant  and  powerful  debater  that  ever  lived.  Charles  Fox 
himself  attributed  his  own  success  to  the  resolution  which 
he  formed  when  very  young,  of  speaking,  well  or  ill,  at  least 
once  every  night.  “ During  five  whole  sessions,”  he  used 
to  say,  “ I spoke  every  night  but  one ; and  I regret  only 
that  I did  not  speak  on  that  night  too.”  Indeed,  with  the 
exception  of  Mr.  Stanley,  whose  knowledge  of  the  science 
of  parliamentary  defence  resembles  an  instinct,  it  would  bo 
difficult  to  name  any  eminent  debater  who  had  not  made 
himself  a master  of  his  art  at  the  expense  of  his  audience. 

But,  as  this  art  is  one  which  even  the  ablest  men  have 
seldom  acquired  without  long  practice,  so  it  is  one  which 
men  of  respectable  abilities,  with  assiduous  and  intrepid 
practice  seldom  fail  to  acquire.  It  is  singular  that,  in  such 
an  art,  Pitt,  a man  of  great  parts,  of  great  fluency,  of  great 
boldness,  a man  whose  whole  life  was  passed  in  parliamen- 
tary conflict,  a man  who,  during  several  years  was  the  lead- 
ing minister  of  the  Crown  in  the  House  of  Commons,  should 
never  have  attained  to  high  excellence.  He  spoke  without 
premeditation ; but  his  speech  followed  the  course  of  his 
own  thoughts,  and  not  the  course  of  the  previous  discussion. 
He  could,  indeed,  treasure  up  in  his  memory  some  detached 
expression  of  an  opponent,  and  make  it  the  text  for  lively 
ridicule  or  solemn  reprehension.  Some  of  the  most  cele- 
brated bursts  of  his  eloquence  were  called  forth  by  an  un- 
guarded word,  a laugh,  or  a cheer.  But  this  was  the  only 
sort  of  reply  in  which  he  appears  to  have  excelled.  He  was 
perhaps  the  only  great  English  orator  who  did  not  think  it 
any  advantage  to  have  the  last  word,  and  who  generally 
spoke  by  choice  before  his  most  formidable  antagonists.  His 
merit  was  almost  entirely  rhetorical.  He  did  not  succeed 
either  in  exposition  or  in  refutation ; but  his  speeches 
abounded  in  lively  illustrations,  striking  apophthegms,  well 
told  anecdotes,  happy  allusions,  passionate  appeals.  His 
invective  and  sarcasm  were  terrific.  Perhaps  no  English 
orator  was  ever  so  much  feared. 

But  that  which  gave  most  effect  to  his  declamation  was 
the  air  of  sincerity,  of  vehement  feeling,  of  moral  elevation, 
which  belonged  to  all  that  he  said.  His  style  was  not  al- 
ways in  the  purest  taste.  Several  contemporary  judges 
pronounced  it  too  florid.  Walpole,  in  the  midst  of  the  rap- 
turous eulogy  which  he  pronounces  on  one  of  Pitt’s  greatest 
orations,  owns  that  some  of  the  metaphors  were  too  forced. 
Some  of  Pitt’s  quotations  and  classical  stories  are  too  trite 


68  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings.  k 

for  a clever  schoolboy.  But  these  were  niceties  for  which 
the  audience  cared  little.  The  enthusiasm  of  the  orator 
infected  all  who  heard  him  ; his  ardor  and  his  noble  bearing 
put  fire  into  the  most  frigid  conceit,  and  gave  dignity  to  tha 
most  puerile  allusion. 

His  powers  soon  began  to  give  annoyance  to  the  Govern- 
ment ; and  Walpole  determined  to  make  an  example  of  the 
patriotic  cornet.  Pitt  was  accordingly  dismissed  from  the 
service.  Mr.  Thackeray  says  that  the  Minister  took  this 
step,  because  he  plainly  saw  that  it  wrould  have  been  vain 
to  think  of  buying  over  so  honorable  and  so  disinterested  an 
opponent.  We  do  not  dispute  Pitt’s  integrity;  but  we  do 
not  know  wrhat  proof  he  had  given  of  it  when  he  was  turned 
out  of  the  army;  and  we  are  sure  that  Walpole  was  not 
likely  to  give  credit  for  inflexible  honesty  to  a young  adven- 
turer, who  had  never  had  an  opportunity  of  refusing  any- 
thing. The  truth  is,  that  it  was  not  Walpole’s  practice  to 
buy  off  enemies.  Mr.  Burke  truly  says,  in  the  Appeal  to 
the  Old  Whigs,  that  Walpole  gained  very  few  over  from 
the  Opposition.  Indeed  that  great  minister  knew  his  busi- 
ness far  too  well.  He  knew  that,  for  one  mouth  which  is 
stopped  with  a place,  fifty  other  mouths  will  be  instantly 
opened.  He  knew  that  it  would  have  been  very  bad  policy 
in  him  to  give  the  world  to  understand  that  more  was  to  be 
got  by  thwarting  his  measures  than  by  supporting  them. 
These  maxims  are  as  old  as  the  origin  of  parliamentary 
corruption  in  England.  Pepys  learned  them,  as  he  tells  us, 
from  the  counsellors  of  Charles  the  Second. 

Pitt  was  no  loser.  He  was  made  Groom  of  the  Bed- 
chamber to  the  Prince  of  W ales,  and  continued  to  declaim 
against  the  minis ters  with  unabated  violence  and  with  in- 
creasing ability.  The  question  of  maritime  right,  then  agi- 
tated between  Spain  and  England,  called  forth  all  his 
powers.  He  clamored  for  war  with  a vehemence  which  it 
is  not  easy  to  reconcile  with  reason  or  humanity,  but  which 
appears  to  Mr.  Thackeray  worthy  of  the  highest  admiration. 
Wc  will  not  stop  to  argue  a point  on  which  we  had  long 
thought  that  all  well-informed  people  were  agreed.  We 
could  easily  show,  we  think,  that  if  any  respect  be  due  to 
international  law,  if  right,  where  societies  of  men  are  con- 
cerned, be  anything  but  another  name  for  might,  if  we  do 
net  adept  the  doctrine  of  the  Buccaniers,  which  seems  to  be 
also  the  doctrine  of  Mr.  Thackeray,  that  treaties  mean  noth- 
ing within  thirty  degrees  of  the  line,  the  war  with  Spain 


WILLIAM  PITT,  EARL  OF  CHATHAM.  59 

was  altogether  unjustifiable.  But  the  truth  is,  that  the  pro- 
moters of  that  war  have  saved  the  historian  the  trouble  of 
trying  them.  They  have  pleaded  guilty.  “ I have  seen,” 
says  Burke,  “ and  with  some  care  examined,  the  original 
documents  concerning  certain  important  transactions  of 
those  times.  They  perfectly  satisfy  me  of  the  extreme  in- 
justice of  that  war,  and  of  the  falsehood  of  the  colors  which 
Walpole,  to  his  ruin,  and  guided  by  a mistaken  policy,  suf- 
fered to  be  daubed  over  that  measure.  Some  years  after,  it 
was  my  fortune  to  converse  with  many  of  the  principal  ac- 
tors against  that  minister,  and  with  those  who  principally 
excited  that  clamor.  None  of  them,  no  not  one,  did  in  the 
least  defend  the  measure,  or  attempt  to  justify  their  conduct. 
They  condemned  it  as  freely  as  they  would  have  done  in 
commenting  upon  any  proceeding  in  history  in  which  they 
were  totally  unconcerned.”  Pitt,  on  subsequent  occasions, 
gave  ample  proof  that  he  was  one  of  these  penitents.  But 
his  conduct,  even  where  it  appeared  most  criminal  to  him- 
self, appears  admirable  to  his  biographer. 

The  elections  of  1741  were  unfavorable  to  Walpole;  and 
after  a long  and  obstinate  struggle  he  found  it  necessary 
to  resign.  The  Duke  of  Newcastle  and  Lord  Hardwieke 
opened  a negotiation  with  the  leading  patriots,  in  the  hope 
of  forming  an  administration  on  a Whig  basis.  At  this 
conjuncture,  Pitt  and  those  persons  who  were  most  nearly 
connected  with  him  acted  in  a manner  very  little  to  their 
honor.  They  attempted  to  come  to  an  understanding  with 
Walpole,  and  offered,  if  he  would  use  his  influence  with  the 
King  in  their  favor,  to  screen  him  from  prosecution.  They 
even  went  so  far  as  to  engage  for  the  concurrence  of  the 
Prince  of  W ales.  But  W alpole  knew  that  the  assistance  of 
tl  e Boys,  as  he  called  the  young  Patriots,  would  avail  him 
nothing  if  Pulteney  and  Carteret  should  prove  intractable, 
and  would  be  superfluous  if  the  great  leaders  of  the  Opposi- 
tion could  be  gained.  He,  therefore,  declined  the  proposal. 
It  is  remarkable  that  Mr.  Thackeray,  who  has  thought  it 
worth  while  to  preserve  Pitt’s  bad  college  verses,  has  not 
even  alluded  to  this  story,  a story  which  is  supported  by 
strong  testimony,  and  which  may  be  found  in  so  common  a 
book  as  Coxe’s  Life  of  W alpole. 

The  new  arrangements  disappointed  almost  every  mem- 
ber of  the  Opposition,  and  none  more  than  Pitt.  He  was 
not  invited  to  become  a placeman ; and  he  therefore  stuck 
firmer  to  his  old  trade  as  patriot.  Fortunate  it  was  for  him 


60  MACATJLaY’s  miscellaneous  WRITINGS. 

that  he  did  so.  Had  he  taken  office  atjhis  time,  he  Mould 
in  all  probability  have  shared  largely  in  the  unpopularity  of 
Pulteney,  Sandys,  and  Carteret.  He  was  now  the  fiercest 
and  most  implacable  of  those  who  called  for  vengeance  on 
Walpole.  He  spoke  with  great  energy  and  ability  in  favor 
of  the  most  unjust  and  violent  proposition*  which  the  ene 
mies  of  the  fallen  minister  could  invent.  He  urged  the 
House  of  Commons  to  appoint  a secret  tribunal  for  the  pur- 
pose of  investigating  the  conduct  of  the  late  First  Lord  of 
the  Treasury.  This  was  done.  The  great  majority  of  the 
inquisitors  were  notoriously  hostile  to  the  accused  states- 
man. Yet  they  were  compelled  to  own  that  they  could  find 
no  fault  in  him.  They  therefore  called  for  new  powers,  for 
a bill  of  indemnity  to  witnesses,  or,  in  plain  words,  for  a bill 
to  reward  all  who  might  give  evidence,  true  or  false,  against 
the  Earl  of  Orford.  This  bill  Pitt  supported,  Pitte  who  had 
himself  offered  to  be  a screen  between  Lord  Orford  and 
public  justice.  These  are  melancholy  facts.  Mr.  Thackeray 
omits  them,  or  hurries  over  them  as  fast  as  he  can  ; and,  as 
eulogy  is  his  business,  he  is  in  the  right  to  do  so.  But, 
though  there  are  many  parts  of  the  life  of  Pitt  which  it  is 
more  agreeable  to  contemplate,  we  know  none  more  in- 
structive. What  must  have  been  the  general  state  of  politi- 
cal morality,  when  a young  man,  considered,  and  justly  con- 
sidered, as  the  most  public-spirited  and  spotless  statesman 
of  his  time,  could  attempt  to  force  his  way  into  office  by 
means  so  disgraceful ! 

The  Bill  of  Indemnity  was  rejected  by  the  Lords.  Wal- 
pole withdrew  himself  quietly  from  the  jmblic  eye ; and  the 
ample  space  which  he  had  left  vacant  was  soon  occupied  by 
Carteret.  Against  Carteret  Pitt  began  to  thunder  with  as 
much  zeal  as  he  had  ever  manifested  against  Sir  Robert. 
To  Carteret  he  transferred  most  of  the  hard  names  which 
were  familiar  to  his  eloquence,  sole  minister,  wicked  minis- 
ter, odious  minister,  execrable  minister.  The  chief  topic  of 
Pitt’s  invective  was  the  favor  shown  to  the  German  domin- 
ions of  the  House  of  Brunswick.  He  attacked  with  great 
violence,  and  with  an  ability  which  raised  him  to  the  Very 
first  rank  among  the  parliamentary  speakers,  the  practice  of 
paying  Hanoverian  troops  with  English  money.  The  House 
of  Commons  had  lately  lost  some  of  its  most  distinguished 
ornaments.  Walpole  and  Pulteney  had  accepted  peerages; 
Sir  William  Wyndham  was  dead  ; and  among  the  rising  men 
none  could  be  considered  as,  on  the  whole,  a match  for  Pitt. 


WILLIAM  PITT,  PAUL  OP  CHATHAM.  6l 

During  the  recess  of  1744,  the  old  Duchess  of  Marl- 
borough died.  She  carried  to  her  grave  the  reputation  of 
being  decidedly  the  best  hater  of  her  time.  Yet  her  love 
had  been  infinitely  more  destructive  than  her  hatred.  More 
than  thirty  years  before  her  temper  had  ruined  the  party  to 
which  she  belonged  and  the  husband  whom  she  adored. 
Time  had  made  her  neither  wiser  nor  kinder.  Whoever 
was  at  any  moment  great  and  prosperous  was  the  object  of 
her  fiercest  detestation.  She  had  hated  Walpole;  she  djw 
hated  Cateret.  Pope,  long  before  her  death,  predicted  the 
fate  of  her  vast  property. 

“ To  heirs  unknown  descends  the  unguarded  store, 

Or  wanders,  heaven-directed,  to  the  poor/’ 

Pitt  was  then  one  of  the  poor ; and  to  him  Heaven  di- 
rected a portion  of  the  wealth  of  the  haughty  Dowager. 
She  left  him  a legacy  of  ten  thousand  pounds,  in  considera- 
tion of  athe  noble  defence  he  had  made  for  the  support  of 
the  laws  of  England,  and  to  prevent  the  ruin  of  his  coun- 
try ” 

The  will  was  made  in  August.  The.  Duchess  died  in 
October.  In  November  Pitt  was  a courtier.  The  Pelhams 
had  forced  the  King,  against  his  will,  to  part  with  Lord 
Carteret,  who  had  now  become  Earl  Granville.  They  pro- 
ceeded, after  this  victory,  to  form  the  Government  on  that 
basis,  called  by  the  cant  name  of  “the  broad  bottom.” 
Lyttelton  had  a seat  at  the  Treasury,  and  several  other 
friends  of  Pitt  were  provided  for.  But  Pitt  himself  was, 
for  the  present,  forced  to  be  content  with  promises.  The 
King  resented  most  highly  some  expression  which  the  ar- 
dent orator  had  used  in  the  debate  on  the  Hanoverian 
troops.  But  Newcastle  and  Pelham  expressed  the  strongest 
confidence  that  time  and  their  exertions  would  soften  the 
royal  displeasure. 

Pitt,  on  his  part,  omitted  nothing  that  might  facilitate 
his  admission  to  office.  He  resigned  his  place  in  the  house- 
hold of  Prince  Frederic,  and,  when  Parliament  met,  exerted 
his  eloquence  in  support  of  the  Government.  The  Pelhams 
were  really  sincere  in  their  endeavors  to  remove  the  strong 
prejudices  which  had  taken  root  in  the  King’s  mind.  They 
knew  that  Pitt  was  not  a man  to  be  deceived  with  ease  or 
offended  with  impunity.  They  were  afraid  that  they  should 
not  be  long  able  to  put  him  off  with  promises.  For  was 
it  their  interest  so  to  put  him  off.  There  was  a strong 
tie  between  him  and  them.  He  was  the  enemy  of  their 


62  MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

enemy.  The  brothers  hated  and  dreaded  the  eloquent,  as 
piring,  and  imperious  Granville.  They  had  traced  his  in 
trigues  in  many  quarters.  They  knew  his  influence  over 
the  royal  mind.  They  knew  that,  as  soon  as  a favorable 
opportunity  should  arrive,  he  would  be  recalled  to  the  head 
of  affairs.  They  resolved  to  bring  things  to  a crisis ; and 
the  question  on  which  they  took  issue  with  their  master  was, 
whether  Pitt  should  or  should  not  be  admitted  to  office. 
They  chose  their  time  with  more  skill  than  generosity.  It 
was  when  rebellion  was  actually  raging  in  Britain,  when  the 
Pretender  was  master  of  the  northern  extremity  of  the 
island,  that  they  tendered  their  resignations.  The  King 
found  himself  deserted,  in  one  day,  by  the  whole  strength 
of  that  party  which  had  placed  his  family  on  the  throne. 
Lord  Granville  tried  to  form  a government;  but  it  soon  ap- 
peared that  the  parliamentary  interest  of  the  Pelhams  was 
irresistible,  and  that  the  King’s  favorite  statesman  could 
count  only  on  about  thirty  Lords  and  eighty  members  of  the 
House  of  Commons.  The  scheme  was  given  up.  Granville 
w7ent  away  laughing.  The  ministers  came  back  stronger 
than  ever ; and  the  King  was  now  no  longer  able  to  refuse 
anything  that  they  might  be  pleased  to  demand.  He  could 
only  mutter  that  it  was  very  hard  that  Newcastle,  who  was 
not  fit  to  be  chamberlain  to  the  most  insignificant  prince  in 
Germany,  should  dictate  to  the  King  of  England. 

One  concession  the  ministers  graciously  made.  They 
agreed  that  Pitt  should  not  be  placed  in  a situation  in 
which  it  would  be  necessary  for  him  to  have  frequent  inter 
view’s  with  the  King.  Instead,  therefore,  of  making  their 
new  ally  Seer  eta  ry-at-War  as  they  had  intended,  they  ap- 
pointed him  Vice-Treasurer  of  Ireland,  and  in  a few7  months 
promoted  him  to  the  office  of  Paymaster  of  the  Forces. 

This  w7as,  at  that  time,  one  of  the  most  lucrative  offices 
in  the  Government.  The  salary  w’as  but  a small  part  of  the 
emolument  w hich  the  Paymaster  derived  from  his  place. 
ITe  was  allowed  to  keep  a large  sum,  which,  even  in  time 
of  peace,  was  seldom  less  than  one  hundred  thousand  pounds, 
constantly  in  his  hand  ; and  the  interest  on  this  sum  he  might 
appropriate  to  his  own  use.  This  practice  was  not  secret,  nor 
was  it  considered  as  disreputable.  It  was  the  practice  of  men 
of  undoubted  honor,  both  before  and  after  the  time  of  Pitt. 
He,  however,  refused  to  accept  one  farthing  beyond  the 
salary  which  the  law’  had  annexed  to  his  office.  It  had  been 
usual  for  foreign  princes  who  receive  the  pay  of  England  to 


WILLIAM  BITT,  EAKL  OP  CHATHAM. 


63 


give  to  the  Paymaster  of  the  F orces  a small  percentage  on 
the  subsidies.  These  ignominious  vails  Pitt  resolutely  de- 
clined. 

Disinterestedness  of  this  kind  was,  in  his  days,  very  rare. 
His  conduct  surprised  and  amused  politicians.  It  excited 
the  warmest  admiration  throughout  the  body  of  the  people. 
In  spite  of  the  inconsistencies  of  which  Pitt  had  been  guilty, 
in  spite  of  the  strange  contrast  between  his  violence  in  Op- 
position and  his  tameness  in  office,  he  still  possessed  a large 
share  of  the  public  confidence.  The  motives  which  may 
lead  a politician  to  change  his  connections  or  his  general 
line  of  conduct  are  often  obscure;  but  disinterestedness  in 
pecuniary  matters  everybody  can  understand.  Pitt  was 
thenceforth  considered  as  a man  who  was  proof  to  all  sordid 
temptations.  If  he  acted  ill,  it  might  be  from  an  error  in 
judgment;  it  might  be  from  resentment;  it  might  be  from 
ambition.  But  poor  as  he  was,  he  had  vindicated  himself 
from  all  suspicion  of  covetousness. 

Eight  quiet  years  followed,  eight  years  during  which 
the  minority,  which  had  been  feeble  ever  since  Lord  Gran- 
ville had  been  overthrown,  continued  to  dwindle  till  it  be- 
came almost  invisible.  Peace  was  made  with  France  and 
Spain  in  1748.  Prince  Frederic  died  in  1751  ; and  with 
him  died  the  very  semblance  of  opposition.  All  the  most 
distinguished  survivors  of  the  party  which  had  supported 
Walpole  and  of  the  party  which  had  opposed  him  were 
united  under  his  successor.  The  fiery  and  vehement  spirit 
of  Pitt  had  for  a time  been  laid  to  rest.  He  silently  acqui- 
esced in  that  very  system  of  continental  measures  which  he 
had  lately  condemned.  He  ceased  to  talk  disrespectfully 
about  Hanover,  lie  did  not  object  to  the  treaty  with 
Spain,  though  that  treaty  left  us  exactly  where  we  had  been 
when  he  uttered  his  spirit-stirring  harangues  against  the 
pacific  policy  of  Walpole.  Now  and  then  glimpses  of  his 
former  self  appeared;  but  they  were  few  and  transient 
Pelham  knew  with  whom  he  had  to  deal,  and  felt  that  an 
ally,  so  little  used  to  control,  and  so  capable  of  inflicting 
injury,  might  well  be  indulged  in  an  occassional  fit  of  way- 
wardness. 

Two  men,  little,  if  at  all,  inferior  to  Pitt  in  powers  of 
mind,  held,  like  him,  subordinate  offices  in  the  Government. 
One  of  these,  Murray,  was  successively,  Solicitor-General 
and  Attorney-General.  This  distinguished  person  far  sur- 
passed Pitt  in  correctness  of  taste,  in  power  of  reasoning, 


64 


MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


m depth  and  variety  of  knowledge.  His  parliamentary  elo- 
quence never  blazed  into  sudden  flames  of  dazzling  bril- 
liancy ; but  its  clear,  placid,  and  mellow  splendor  was  never 
for  an  instant  overclouded.  Intellectually,  he  was,  we  be- 
lieve, fully  equal  to  Pitt ; but  he  was  deficient  in  the  moral 
qualities  to  which  Pitt  owed  most  of  his  success.  Murray 
wanted  the  energy,  the  courage,  the  all-grasping  and  all- 
risking  ambition,  which  make  men  great  in  stirring  times. 
Ilis  heart  was  a little  cold,  his  temper  cautious  even  to 
timidity,  his  manner  decorous  even  to  formality.  He  never 
exposed  his  fortunes  or  his  fame  to  any  risk  which  he  could 
^void.  At  one  time  he  might,  in  all  probability,  have  been 
Prime  Minister.  But  the  object  of  his  wishes  was  the 
judicial  bench.  The  situation  of  Chief  Justice  might  not  be 
60  splendid  as  that  of  First  Lord  of  the  Treasury ; but  it 
was  dignified ; it  was  quiet ; it  was  secure ; and  therefore 
it  was  the  favorite  situation  for  Murray. 

Fox,  the  father  of  the  great  man  whose  mighty  efforts 
in  the  cause  of  peace,  of  truth,  and  of  liberty  have  made 
that  name  immortal,  was  Secretary-at-War.  He  was  a 
favorite  with  the  King,  with  the  Duke  of  Cumberland,  and 
with  some  of  the  most  powerful  members  of  the  great  Whig 
connection.  His  parliamentary  talents  were  of  the  highest 
order.  As  a speaker  he  was  in  almost  all  respects  the  very 
opposite  to  Pitt.  His  figure  was  ungraceful ; his  face,  as 
Reynolds  and  Nollekens  have  preserved  it  to  us,  indicated 
a strong  understanding  ; but  the  features  were  coarse,  and 
the  general  aspect  dark  and  lowering.  His  manner  was 
awkward ; his  delivery  was  hesitating ; he  was  often  at  a 
stand  for  want  of  a word  ; but  as  a debater,  as  a master  of 
that  keen,  weighty,  manly  logic,  which  is  suited  to  the  dis- 
cussion of  political  questions,  he  has  perhaps  never  been 
(Surpassed  except  by  his  son.  In  reply  he  was  as  decidedly 
Superior  to  Pitt  as  in  declamation  he  was  Pitt’s  inferior.  In- 
tellectually the  balance  was  nearly  even  between  the  rivals. 
But  here,  again,  the  moral  qualities  of  Pitt  turn  the  scale. 
Fox  had  undoubtedly  many  virtues.  In  natural  disposition 
as  well  as  in  talents,  he  bore  a great  resemblance  to  his 
more  celebrated  son.  He  had  the  same  sweetness  of  temper, 
the  same  strong  passions,  the  same  openness,  boldness,  and 
impetuosity,  the  same  cordiality  towards  friends,  the  same 
placability  towards  enemies.  No  man  was  more  warmly  or 
justly  beloved  by  his  family  or  by  his  associates.  But  un- 
happily he  had  been  trained  in  a bad  political  school,  in  a 


WILLIAM  PITT,  EARL  OF  CHATHAM.  65 

school,  the  doctrines  of  which  were,  that  political  virtue  is 
the  mere  coquetry  of  political  prostitution,  that  every 
patriot  has  his  price,  that  Government  can  be  carried  on 
only  by  means  of  corruption,  and  that  the  state  is  given 
as  a prey  to  statesmen.  These  maxims  were  too  much 
in  vogue  throughout  the  lower  ranks  of  Walpole’s  party, 
and  were  too  much  encouraged  by  Walpole  himself,  who, 
from  contempt  of  what  is  in  our  day  vulgarly  called 
humbug , often  ran  extravagantly  and  offensively  into  the 
opposite  extreme.  The  loose  political  morality  of  Fox 
presented  a remarkable  contrast  to  the  ostentatious  purity 
of  Pitt.  The  nation  mistrusted  the  former,  and  placed 
implicit  confidence  in  the  latter.  But  almost  all  the  states- 
men of  the  age  had  still  to  learn  that  the  confidence 
of  the  nation  was  worth  having.  While  things  went  on 
quietly,  while  there  was  no  opposition,  while  everything 
was  given  by  the  favor  of  a small  ruling  junto,  Fox  had 
a decided  advantage  over  Pitt ; but  when  dangerous 
times  came,  when  Europe  was  convulsed  with  war,  when 
Parliament  was  broken  up  into  factions,  when  the  public 
mind  was  violently  excited,  the  favorite  of  the  people 
rose  to  supreme  power,  while  his  rival  sank  into  insig- 
nificance. 

Early  in  the  year  1754  Henry  Pelham  died  unexpectedly. 
u Now  I shall  have  no  more  peace,”  exclaimed  the  old  King, 
when  he  heard  the  news.  He  was  in  the  right.  Pelham 
had  succeeded  in  bringing  together  and  keeping  together 
all  the  talents  of  the  kingdom.  By  his  death,  the  highest 
post  to  which  an  English  subject  can  aspire  was  left  vacant ; 
and  at  the  same  moment,  the  influence  which  had  yoked 
together  and  reigned  in  so  many  turbulent  and  ambitious 
spirits  was  withdrawn 

Within  a week  after  Pelham’s  death,  it  was  determined 
that  the  Duke  of  Newcastle  should  be  placed  at  the  head  of 
the  treasury;  but  the  arrangement  was  still  far  from  com- 
plete. Who  was  to  be  the  leading  Minister  of  the  Crown  in 
the  House  of  Commons?  Was  the  office  to  be  intrusted  to 
a man  of  eminent  talents  ? And  would  not  such  a man  in 
such  a place  demand  and  obtain  a larger  share  of  power  and 
patronage  than  Newcastle  would  be  disposed  to  concede  ? 
Was  a mere  drudge  to  be  employed?  And  what  probability 
was  there  that  a mere  drudge  would  be  able  to  manage  a 
large  and  stormy  assembly,  abounding  with  able  and  expe- 
rienced men? 

Vol.  II.— 5’r 


66  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  yYRItings 

Pope  has  said  of  that  wretched  miser  Sir  John  Cutler, 

“ Cutler  saw  tenants  break  and  houses  fall 
For  very  want  : he  could  not  build  a wall.” 

Newcastle’s  love  of  power  resembled  Cutler’s  love  of 
money.  It  was  an  avarice  which  thwarted  itself,  a penny- 
wise and  pound-foolish  cupidity.  An  immediate  outlay  was 
so  painful  to  him  that  he  would  not  venture  to  make  the 
most  desirable  improvement.  If  he  could  have  found  it 
in  his  heart  to  cede  at  once  a portion  of  his  authority,  he 
might  probably  have  ensured  the  continuance  of  what  re- 
mained. Buthe  thought  it  better  to  construct  a weak  and 
rotten  government,  which  tottered  at  the  smallest  breath, 
and  fell  in  the  first  storm,  than  to  pay  the  necessary  price 
for  sound  and  durable  materials.  He  wished  to  find  some 
person  who  would  be  willing  to  accept  the  lead  of  the  House 
of  Commons  on  terms  similar  to  those  on  which  Secretary 
Craggs  had  acted  under  Sunderland,  five-and-thirty  years 
before.  Craggs  could  hardly  be  called  a minister.  He  was 
a mere  agent  for  the  minister.  He  was  not  trusted  with 
the  higher  secrets  of  state,  but  obeyed  implicitly  the  direc- 
tions of  his  superior,  and  was,  to  use  Doddington’s  expres- 
sion, merely  Lord  Sunderland’s  man.  But  times  were 
changed.  Since  the  days  of  Sunderland,  the  importance 
of  the  House  of  Commons  had  been  constantly  on  the  in- 
crease. During  many  years,  the  person  who  conducted  the 
business  of  the  government  in  that  House  had  almost 
always  been  Prime  Minister.  In  these  circumstances,  it 
was  not  to  be  supposed  that  any  person  who  possessed 
the  talents  necessary  for  the  situation  would  stoop  to  accept 
it  on  such  terms  as  Newcastle  was  disposed  to  offer. 

Pitt  was  ill  at  Bath ; and,  had  lie  been  well  and  in  London, 
neither  the  King  nor  Newcastle  would  have  been  disposed 
to  make  any  overtures  to  him.  The  cool  and  wary  Murray 
had  set  his  heart  on  professional  objects.  Negotiations 
were  opened  with  Fox.  Newcastle  behaved  like  himself, 
that  is  to  say,  childishly  and  basely.  The  proposition 
which  he  made  was  that  Fox  should  be  Secretary  of  State, 
with  the  lead  of  the  House  of  Commons ; that  the  disposal 
of  the  secret  service  money,  or,  in  plain  words,  the  business 
of  buying  members  of  Parliament,  should  be  left  to  the  First 
Lord  of  the  Treasury ; but  that  Fox  should  be  exactly  in- 
formed of  the  way  in  which  this  fund  was  employed. 

To  these  conditions  Fox  assented.  But  the  next  day 


WILLIAM  PITT,  EAJRL  OF  CHATHAM. 


67 


everything  was  in  confusion.  Newcastle  had  changed  his 
mind.  The  conversation  which  took  place  between  Fox  and 
the  Duke  is  one  of  the  most  curious  in  English  history. 
“My  brother,”  said  Newcastle,  “ when  he  was  at  the  Treas- 
ury, never  told  anybody  what  he  did  with  the  secret  ser- 
vice money.  No  more  will  I.”  The  answer  was  obvious. 
Pelham  had  been,  not  only  First  Lord  of  the  Treasury,  but 
also  manager  of  the  House  of  Commons ; and  it  was  there- 
fore unnecessary  for  him  to  confide  to  any  other  person  his 
dealings  with  the  members  of  that  House.  “ But  how,”  said 
Fox,  “ can  I lead  in  the  Commons  without  information  on  this 
head?  How  can  I talk  to  gentlemen  when  I do  not  know 
which  of  them  have  received  gratification  and  which  have 
not?  And  who,”  he  continued,  “ is  to  have  the  disposal  of 
places?  ” — “I  myself,”  said  the  Duke. — “ How  then  am  I to 
manage  the  House  of  Commons  ? ” — “ Oh,  let  the  members 
of  the  House  of  Commons  come  to  me.”  Fox  then  men- 
tioned the  general  election  which  was  approaching,  and  asked 
how  the  ministerial  boroughs  were  to  be  filled  up.  “Do  not 
trouble  yourself,”  said  Newcastle ; “ that  is  all  settled.” 
This  was  too  much  for  human  nature  to  bear.  Fox  refused 
to  accept  the  Secretaryship  of  State  on  such  terms;  and 
the  Duke  confided  the  management  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons to  a dull,  harmless  man,  whose  name  is  almost  for- 
gotten in  our  time,  Sir  Thomas  Robinson. 

When  Pitt  returned  from  Bath  he  affected  great  modera- 
tion, though  his  haughty  soul  was  boiling  with  resentment. 
He  did  not  complain  of  the  manner  in  which  he  had  been 
passed  by,  but  said  openly  that,  in  his  opinion,  Fox  was  the 
fittest  man  to  lead  the  House  of  Commons.  The  rivals, 
reconciled  by  their  common  interest  and  their  common  en- 
mities, concerted  a plan  of  operations  for  the  next  session. 
“ Sir  Thomas  Robinson  leads  us  ! ” said  Pitt  to  Fox.  “ The 
Duke  might  as  well  send  his  jack-boot  to  lead  us.” 

The  elections  of  1754  were  favorable  to  the  administra- 
tion. But  the  aspect  of  foreign  affairs  was  threatening.  In 
India  the  English  and  the  French  had  been  employed,  ever 
since  the  peace  of  Aix-la-Chapelle,  in  cutting  each  other’s 
throats.  They  had  lately  taken  to  the  same  practice  in 
America.  It  might  have  been  foreseen  that  stirring  times 
were  at  hand,  times  which  would  call  for  abilities  very  dif- 
ferent from  those  of  Newcastle  and  Robinson. 

In  November  the  Parliament  met;  and  before  the  end 
of  that  month  the  new  Secretary  of  State  had  been  so  un- 


68 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


mercifully  baited  by  the  Paymaster  of  the  Forces  and  the 
Secretary  at  War  that  he  was  thoroughly  sick  of  his  situa- 
tion. Fox  attacked  him  with  great  force  and  acrimony. 
Pitt  affected  a kind  of  contemptuous  tenderness  for  Sir 
Thomas,  and  directed  his  attacks  principally  against  New- 
castle. On  one  occasion  he  asked  in  tones  of  thunder 
whether  Parliament  sat  only  to  register  the  edicts  of  one 
too  powerful  subject?  The  Duke  was  scared  out  of  his 
wits.  He  was  afraid  to  dismiss  the  mutineers ; he  was 
ifraid  to  promote  them ; but  it  was  absolutely  necessary  to 
do  something.  Fox,  as  the  less  proud  and  intractable  of  the 
refractory  pair,  was  preferred.  A seat  in  the  Cabinet  was 
offered  to  him  on  condition  that  he  would  give  efficient  sup- 
port to  the  ministry  in  Parliament.  In  an  evil  hour  for  his 
fame  and  his  fortunes  he  accepted  the  offer,  and  abandoned 
his  connection  with  Pitt,  who  never  forgave  this  desertion. 

Sir  Thomas,  assisted  by  Fox,  contrived  to  get  through 
the  business  of  the  year  without  much  trouble.  Pitt  was 
waiting  his  time.  The  negotiations  pending  between 
France  and  England  took  every  day  a more  unfavor- 
able aspect.  Towards  the  close  of  the  session  the  King  sent 
a message  to  inform  the  House  of  Commons  that  he  had 
found  it  necessary  to  make  preparations  for  Avar.  The 
House  returned  an  address  of  thanks,  and  passed  a vote  of 
credit.  During  the  recess,  the  old  animosty  of  both  nations 
was  inflamed  by  a series  of  disastrous  events.  An  English 
force  Avas  cut  off  in  America  ; and  se\^eral  French  merchant- 
men Avere  taken  in  the  West  Indian  seas.  It  was  plain 
that  an  appeal  to  arms  Avas  at  hand. 

The  first  object  of  the  King  Avas  to  secure  Hanover  ; 
and  NcAvcastle  was  disposed  to  gratify  his  master.  Treaties 
were  concluded,  after  the  fashion  of  those  times,  Avith  sev- 
eral petty  German  princes,  avIio  bound  themselves  to  find 
soldiers  if  England  would  find  money ; and,  as  it  was 
suspected  that  Frederic  the  Second  had  set  his  heart  on  the 
electoral  dominions  of  his  uncle,  Russia  Avas  hired  to  k<  ep 
Prussia  in  aAve. 

When  the  stipulations  of  these  treaties  Avere  made 
known,  there  arose  throughout  the  kingdom  a murmur  from 
which  a judicious  observer  might  easily  prognosticate  the 
approach  of  a tempest.  Newcastle  encountered  strong  op- 
position, even  from  those  whom  lie  had  always  considered  as 
his  tools.  Legge,  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  refused  to 
sign  the  Treasury  warrants  which  were  necessary  to  give 


WILLIAM  PITT,  EARL  OF  CHATHAM. 


09 


effect  to  the  treaties.  Those  persons  who  were  supposed 
to  possess  the  confidence  of  the  young  Prince  of  Wales  and 
of  his  mother  held  very  menacing  language.  In  this  per- 
plexity Newastle  sent  for  Pitt,  hugged  him,  patted  him, 
smirked  at  him,  wept  over  him,  and  lisped  out  the  highest 
compliments  and  the  most  splendid  promises.  The  King, 
who  had  hitherto  been  as  sulky  as  possible,  would  be  civil 
to  him  at  the  levee  ; he  should  be  brought  into  the  Cabinet ; 
he  should  be  consulted  about  everything ; if  he  would  only 
be  as  good  as  to  support  the  Hessian  subsidy  in  the  House 
of  Commons.  Pitt  coldly  declined  the  proffered  seat  in  the 
Cabinet,  expressed  the  highest  love  and  reverence  for  the 
King,  and  said  that,  if  his  Majesty  felt  a strong  personal  in- 
terest in  the  Hessian  treaty  he  would  so  far  deviate  from 
the  line  which  he  had  traced  out  for  himself  as  to  give  that 
treaty  his  support.  “ Well,  and  the  Russian  subsidy,”  said 
Newcastle.  “ No,”  said  Pitt,  “ not  a system  of  subsidies.” 
The  Duke  summoned  Lord  Hardwicke  to  his  aid  ; but  Pitt 
was  inflexible.  Murray  would  do  nothing.  Kubinson 
could  do  nothing.  It  was  necessary  to  have  recourse  to  Fox. 
He  became  Secretary  of  State,  with  the  full  authority  of  a 
leader  in  the  House  of  Commons ; and  Sir  Thomas  was 
pensioned  off  on  the  Irish  establishment. 

In  November,  1755,  the  House  met.  Public  expectation 
was  wound  up  to  the  height.  After  ten  quiejb  years  there 
was  to  be  an  Opposition  countenanced  by  the  heir  apjjarent 
of  the  throne,  and  headed  by  the  most  brilliant  orator  of  the 
age.  The  debate  on  the  address  was  long  remembered  as 
one  of  the  greatest  parliamentary  conflicts  of  that  generation. 
It  began  at  three  in  the  afternoon,  and  lasted  till  five  the 
next  morning.  It  was  on  this  night  that  Gerard  Hamilton 
delivered  that  single  speech  from  which  his  nickname  was 
derived.  His  eloquence  threw  into  the  shade  every  orator 
except  Pitt,  who  declaimed  against  the  subsidies  for  an  hour 
and  a half  with  extraordinary  energy  and  effect.  Those 
powers  which  had  formerly  spread  terror  through  the  ma* 
jorities  of  Walpole  and  Carteret  were  now  displayed  in 
their  highest  perfection  before  an  audience  long  unaccus- 
tomed to  such  exhibitions.  One  fragment  of  this  celebrated 
oration  remains  in  a state  of  tolerable  preservation.  It  is 
the  comparison  between  the  coalition  of  Fox  and  Newcastle, 
and  the  junction  of  the  Rhone  and  the  Saone.  “ At  Lyons,” 
said  Pitt,  “I  was  taken  to  see  the  place  where  the  two 
rivers  meet,  the  one  gentle,  feeble,  languid,  and,  though 


TO 


macattlay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


languid,  yet  of  no  depth,  the  other  a boisterous  and  impetu- 
ous torrent : but  different  as  they  are,  they  meet  at  last.” 
The  amendment  moved  by  the  Opposition  was  rejected  by 
a great  majority;  and  Pitt  and  Legge  were  immediately 
dismissed  from  their  offices. 

During  several  months  the  contest  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons was  extremely  sharp.  Warm  debates  took  place  on 
the  estimates,  debates  still  warmer  on  the  subsidiary  treaties. 
The  Government  succeeded  in  every  division  ; but  the  fame 
of  Pitt’s  eloquence,  and  the  influence  of  his  lofty  and  deter- 
mined character,  continued  to  increase  through  the  Session  ; 
and  the  events  which  followed  the  prorogation  made  it 
utterly  impossible  for  any  other  person  to  manage  the 
Parliament  or  the  country. 

The  war  began  in  every  part  of  the  world  with  events 
disastrous  to  England,  and  even  more  shameful  than  disas- 
trous. But  the  most  humiliating  of  these  events  was  the 
loss  of  Minorca.  The  Duke  of  Richelieu,  an  old  fop  who 
had  passed  his  life  from  sixteen  to  sixty  in  seducing  women 
for  whom  he  cared  not  one  straw,  landed  on  that  island,  and 
succeededed  in  reducing  it.  Admiral  Byng  was  sent  from 
Gibraltar,  to  throw  succors  into  Port-Mahon  ; but  he  did 
not  think  fit  to  engage  the  French  squadron,  and  sailed  back 
without  having  effected  his  purpose.  The  people  were  in- 
flamed to  madness.  A storm  broke  forth,  which  appalled 
even  those  who  remembered  the  days  of  Excise  and  of  South- 
Sea.  The  shops  were  filled  with  libels  and  caricatures. 
The  walls  were  covered  with  placards.  The  city  of  London 
called  for  vengeance,  and  the  cry  was  echoed  from  every 
corner  of  the  kingdom.  Dorsetshire,  Huntingdonshire,  Bed- 
fordshire, Buckinghamshire,  Somersetshire,  Lancashire, 
Suffolk,  Shropshire,  Surry,  sent  up  strong  addresses  to  the 
throne,  and  instructed  their  representatives  to  vote  for  a 
strict  enquiry  into  the  causes  of  the  late  disasters.  In  the 
great  towns  the  feeling  was  as  strong  as  in  the  counties.  In 
some  of  the  instructions  it  was  even  recommended  that  the 
sup} 'lies  should  be  stopped. 

The  nation  Avas  in  a state  of  angry  and  sullen  despond- 
ency, almost  unparalleled  in  history.  People  have,  in  all 
ages,  been  in  the  habit  of  talking  about  the  good  old  tini'is 
of  their  ancestors,  and  the  degeneracy  of  their  contempora- 
ries. This  is  in  general  merely  a cant.  But  in  1756  it  was 
something  more.  At  this  time  appeared  Brown’s  Estimate, 
% book  now  remembered  only  by  the  allusions  in  Cowper’a 


WILLIAM  PITT,  EARL  OE  CHATHAM. 


71 


Table  Talk  and  in  Burke’s  Letters  on  a Begicide  Peace.  It 
was  universally  read,  admired  and  believed.  The  author 
fully  convinced  his  readers  that  they  were  a race  of  cowards 
and  scoundrels ; that  nothing  could  save  them  ; that  they 
were  on  the  point  of  being  enslaved  by  their  enemies,  and 
that  they  richly  deserved  their  fate.  Such  were  the  specu- 
lations to  which  ready  credence  was  given  at  the  outset  of 
the  most  .glorious  war  in  which  England  had  ever  been 
engaged. 

Newcastle  now  began  to  tremble  for  his  place,  and  for 
the  only  thing  which  was  dearer  to  him  than  his  place,  his 
neck.  The  people  were  not  in  a mood  to  be  trifled  with. 
Their  cry  was  for  blood.  For  this  once  they  might  be  con- 
tented with  the  sacrifice  of  Byng.  But  what  if  fresh  disas- 
ters should  take  place  ? What  if  an  unfriendly  sovereign 
should  ascend  the  throne?  What  if  a hostile  House  of 
Commons  should  be  chosen  ? 

At  length,  in  October,  the  decisive  crisis  came.  The 
new  Secretary  of  State  had  been  long  sick  of  the  perfidy 
and  levity  of  the  First  Lord  of  the  Treasury,  and  began  to 
fear  that  he  might  be  made  a scapegoat  to  save  the  old  in- 
triguer who,  imbecile  as  he  seemed,  never  wanted  dexterity 
where  danger  was  to  be  avoided.  Fox  threw  up  his  office. 
Newcastle  had  recourse  to  Murray;  but  Murray  had  now 
within  his  reach  the  favorite  object  of  his  ambition.  The 
situation  of  Chief-Justice  of  the  King’s  Bench  was  vacant ; 
and  the  Attorney-General  was  fully  resolved  to  obtain  it, 
or  to  go  into  Oppostion.  Newcastle  offered  him  any 
terms,  the  Duchy  of  Lancashire  for  life,  a tellership  of 
the  Exchequer,  any  amount  of  pension,  two  thousand  a year, 
six  thousand  a year.  When  the  Ministers  found  that  Mur- 
ray’s mind  was  made  up,  they  pressed  for  delay,  the  delay 
of  a session,  a month,  a week,  a day.  Would  he  only  make 
his  appearance  once  more  in  the  House  of  Commons  ? Would 
be  only  speak  in  favor  of  the  address  ? He  was  inexorable, 
and  peremptorily  said  that  they  might  give  or  withhold  the 
Chief- Justiceship,  but  that  he  would  be  Attorney-General 
no  longer. 

Newcastle  now  contrived  to  overcome  the  prejudices  of 
the  King,  and  overtures  were  made  to  Pitt,  through  Lord 
Hardwickc.  Pitt  knew  his  power,  and  showed  that  he 
knew  it.  He  demanded  as  an  indispensable  condition  that 
Newcastle  should  be  altogether  excluded  from  the  new  ar- 
rangement. 


72  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

The  Duke  was  in  a state  of  ludicrous  distress.  He  ran 
about  chattering  and  crying,  asking  advice  and  listening  to 
none.  In  the  mean  time,  the  Session  drew  near.  The  pub- 
lic excitement  was  unabated.  Nobody  could  be  found  to 
face  Pitt  and  Fox  in  the  House  of  Commons.  Newcastle’s 
heart  failed  him,  and  he  tendered  his  resignation. 

The  King  sent  for  Fox,  and  directed  him  to  form  the 
plan  of  an  administration  in  concert  with  Pitt.  But  Pitt 
had  not  forgotten  old  injuries,  and  positively  refused  to  act 
with  Fox. 

The  King  now  applied  to  the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  and 
this  mediator  succeeded  in  making  an  arrangement.  He 
consented  to  take  the  Treasury.  Pitt  became  Secretary  of 
State,  with  the  lead  of  the  House  of  Commons.  The  Great 
Seal  was  put  into  commission.  Legge  returned  to  the  Ex- 
chequer ; and  Lord  Temple,  whose  sister  Pitt  had  lately 
married,  was  placed  at  the  head  of  the  Admiralty. 

It  was  clear  from  the  first  that  this  administration  would 
last  but  a very  short  time.  It  lasted  not  quite  five  months ; 
and,  during  those  five  months,  Pitt  and  Lord  Temple  were 
treated  with  rudeness  by  the  King,  and  found  but  feeble 
support  in  the  House  of  Commons.  It  is  a remarkable  fact, 
that  the  Opposition  prevented  the  re-election  of  some  of  the 
new  Ministers.  Pitt,  who  sat  for  one  of  the  boroughs  which 
were  in  the  Pelham  interest,  found  some  difficulty  in  ob- 
taining a seat  after  his  acceptance  of  the  seals.  So  desti- 
tute was  the  new  Government  of  that  sort  of  influence 
without  which  no  Government  could  then  be  durable.  One 
of  the  arguments  most  frequently  urged  against  the  Reform 
Bill  was  that,  under  a system  of  popular  representation, 
men  whose  presence  in  the  House  of  Commons  was  neces- 
sary to  the  conducting  of  public  business  might  often  find 
it  impossible  to  find  seats.  Should  this  inconvenience  ever 
be  felt,  there  cannot  be  the  slightest  difficulty  in  devising 
and  applying  a remedy.  But  those  who  threatened  us  with 
this  evil  ought  to  have  remembered  that,  under  the  old  sys- 
tem, a great  man  called  to  power  at  a great  crisis  by  the 
voice  of  the  whole  nation  was  in  danger  of  being  excluded, 
by  an  aristocratical  cabal,  from  that  House  of  which  he  was 
the  most  distinguished  ornament. 

The  most  important  event  of  this  short  administration 
was  the  trial  of  Byng.  On  that  subject  public  opinion  is 
still  divided.  We  think  the  punishment  of  the  Admiral  al- 
together unjust  and  absurd.  Treachery,  cowardice,  igno- 


WILLIAM  1’ITT,  EAJiL  OF  CIlATtlAM.  ?8 

ranee  amounting  to  what  lawyers  have  called  crassa  igno - 
rantia , are  fit  objects  of  severe  penal  inflictions.  But  Byng 
was  not  found  guilty  of  treachery,  of  cowardice,  or  of  gross 
ignorance  of  his  profession.  He  died  for  doing  what  the 
most  loyal  subject,  the  most  intrepid  warrior,  the  most  ex- 
perienced seaman,  might  have  done.  He  died  for  an  error 
in  judgment,  an  error  such  as  the  greatest  commanders, 
Frederic,  Napoleon,  Wellington,  have  often  committed,  and 
have  often  acknowledged.  Such  errors  are  not  proper  ob- 
jects of  punishment,  for  this  reason,  that  the  punishing  of 
such  errors  tends  not  to  prevent  them,  but  to  produce  them. 
The  dread  of  an  ignominious  death  may  stimulate  sluggish- 
ness to  exertion,  may  keep  a traitor  to  his  standard,  may 
prevent  a coward  from  running  away,  but  it  has  no  ten- 
dency to  bring  out  those  qualifications  which  enable  men  to 
form  prompt  and  judicious  decisions  in  great  emergen- 
cies. The  best  marksman  may  be  expected  to  fail  when 
the  apple  which  is  to  be  his  mark  is  set  on  his  child’s 
head.  We  cannot  conceive  anything  more  likely  to  deprive 
an  oflicer  of  his  self-possession  at  the  time  when  he  most 
needs  it  than  the  knowledge  that,  if  the  judgment  of  his  su- 
periors should  not  agree  with  his,  he  will  be  executed  with 
every  circumstance  of  shame.  Queens,  it  has  often  been 
said,  run  far  greater  risk  in  childbed  than  private  women, 
merely  because  their  medical  attendants  are  more  anxious. 
The  surgeon  who  attended  Marie  Louise  was  altogether  un- 
nerved by  his  emotions.  “ Compose  yourself,”  said  Bona- 
parte ; “ imagine  that  you  are  assisting  a poor  girl  in  the 
Faubourg  Saint  Antoine.”  This  was  surely  a far  wiser 
course  than  that  of  the  Eastern  king  in  the  Arabian  Knights’ 
Entertainments,  who  proclaimed  that  the  physicians  who 
failed  to  cure  his  daughter  should  have  their  heads  chopped 
off.  Bonaparte  knew  mankind  well ; and,  as  he  acted  to- 
wards this  surgeon  he  acted  towards  his  officers.  No  sove- 
reign was  ever  so  indulgent  to  mere  errors  of  judgment ; and 
it  is  certain  that  no  sovereign  ever  had  in  his  service  so 
many  military  men  fit  for  the  highest  commands. 

Pitt  acted  a brave  and  honest  part  on  this  occasion.  He 
ventured  to  put  both  his  power  and  his  popularity  to  hazard, 
and  spoke  manfully  for  Byng,  both  in  Parliament  and  in  the 
royal  presence.  But  the  King  was  inexorable.  “ The  House 
of  Commons,  Sir,”  said  Pitt,  “ seems  inclined  to  mercy.” 
“ Sir,”  answered  the  King,  “ you  have  taught  me  to  look 
for  the  sense  of  my  people  in  other  plages  than  the  House  of 


74  MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

Commons.”  The  saying  has  more  point  than  most  of  those 
which  are  recorded  of  George  the  Second,  and,  though  sarcas- 
tically meant,  contains  a high  and  just  compliment  to  Pitt. 

The  King  disliked  Pitt,  but  absolutely  hated  Temple. 
The  new  Secretary  of  State,  his  Majesty  said,  had  never  read 
Yatel,  and  was  tedious  and  pompous,  but  respectful.  The 
First  Lord  of  the  Admiralty  was  grossly  impertinent.  Wal- 
pole tells  one  story,  which,  we  fear,  is  much  too  good  to  be 
true.  He  assures  us  that  Temple  entertained  his  royal 
master  with  an  elaborate  parallel  between  Byng’s  behavior 
at  Minorca,  and  his  Majesty’s  behavior  at  Oudenarde,  in 
which  the  advantage  was  all  on  the  side  of  the  Admiral. 

This  state  of  things  could  not  last.  Early  in  April,  Pitt 
and  all  his  friends  were  turned  out,  and  Newcastle  was  sum- 
moned to  St.  James’s.  But  the  public  discontent  was  not 
extinguished.  It  had  subsided  when  Pitt  was  called  to  power. 
But  it  still  glowed  under  the  embers ; and  it  now  burst  at 
once  into  a flame.  The  stocks  fell.  The  Common  Council 
met.  The  freedom  of  the  city  was  voted  to  Pitt.  All  the 
greatest  corporate  towhs  followed  the  example.  “ For  some 
weeks,”  says  Walpole,  “ it  rained  gold  boxes.” 

This  was  the  turning  point  of  Pitt’s  life.  It  might  have 
been  expected  a man  of  so  haughty  and  vehement  a nature, 
treated  so  ungraciously  by  the  Court,  and  supported  so 
enthusiastically  by  the  people,  would  have  eagerly  taken  the 
first  opportunity  of  showing  his  powder  and  gratifying  his 
resentment ; and  an  opportunity  was  not  wanting.  The 
members  for  many  counties  and  large  towns  had  been  in- 
structed to  vote  for  inquiry  into  the  circumstances  wThich 
had  produced  the  miscarriage  of  the  preceding  year.  A 
motion  for  inquiry  had  been  carried  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, without  opposition,  and  a few  days  after  Pitt’s  dis- 
missal, the  investigation  commenced.  Newcastle  and  his  col- 
leagues obtained  a vote  of  acquittal ; but  the  minority  were 
bo  strong  that  they  could  not  venture  to  ask  a vote  of  ap- 
probation, as  they  had  at  first  intended  ; and  it  was  thought 
by  some  shrewd  observers  that,  if  Pitt  had  exerted  himself 
to  the  utmost  of  his  power,  the  inquiry  might  have  ended 
in  a censure,  if  not  in  an  impeachment. 

Pitt  showed  on  this  occasion  a moderation  and  self-govern- 
ment which  was  not  habitual  to  him.  He  had  found  by  ex- 
perience, that  he  could  not  stand  alone.  His  eloquence 
and  his  popularity  had  done  much,  very  much  for  him. 
Without  rank,  without  fortune,  without  borough  interest, 


WttLTA&  PIT T,  jEARt  OP  CttATtlAM.  TS 

hated  by  the  king,  hated  by  the  aristocracy,  he  was  a per- 
son of  the  first  importance  in  the  state.  He  had  been  suf- 
fered to  form  a ministry,  and  to  pronounce  sentence  of  ex- 
clusion on  all  his  rivals,  on  the  most  powerful  nobleman  of 
the  Whig  party,  on  the  ablest  debater  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. And  he  now  found  that  he  had  gone  too  far.  The 
English  Constitution  was  not,  indeed,  without  a popular  ele- 
ment. But  other  elements  generally  predominated.  The 
confidence  and  admiration  of  the  nation  might  make  a states- 
man formidable  at  the  head  of  an  Opposition,  might  load  him 
with  framed  and  glazed  parchments  and  gold  boxes,  might 
possibly,  under  very  peculiar  circumstances,  such  as  those 
of  the  preceding  year,  raise  him  for  a time  to  power. 
But,  constituted  as  Parliament  then  was,  the  favorite  ol 
the  people  could  not  depend  on  a majority  in  the  people’s 
own  House.  The  Duke  of  Newcastle,  however  contemp- 
tible in  morals,  manners,  and  understanding,  was  a danger- 
ous enemy.  Ilis  rank,  his  wealth,  liis  unrivalled  parliament- 
ary interest,  would  alone  have  made  him  important.  But 
this  was  not  all.  The  Whig  aristocracy  regarded  him  as  their 
leader.  His  long  possession  of  power  had  given  him  a kind 
of  prescriptive  right  to  possess  it  still.  The  House  of  Com- 
mons had  been  elected  when  he  was  at  the  head  of  affairs. 
The  members  for  the  ministerial  boroughs  had  all  been  nomi- 
nated by  him.  The  public  offices  swarmed  with  his  crea- 
tures. 

Pitt  desired  power ; and  he  desired  it,  we  really  believe, 
from  high  and  generous  motives.  He  was,  in  the  strict  sense 
of  the  word,  a patriot.  He  had  none  of  that  philanthropy 
which  the  great  French  writers  of  his  time  preached  to  all 
the  nations  of  Europe.  He  loved  England  as  an  Athenian 
loved  the  City  of  the  Violet  Crown,  as  a Roman  loved  the 
City  of  the  Seven  Hills.  He  saw  his  country  insulted  and  de- 
feated. I“Ie  saw  the  national  spirit  sinking.  Yet  he  knew 
what  the  resources  of  the  empire,  vigorously  employed,  could 
effect ; and  he  felt  that  he  was  the  man  to  employ  them 
vigorously.  “ My  Lord,”  he  said  to  the  Duke  of  Devon- 
shire, “ I am  sure  that  I can  save  this  country,  and  that  no- 
body else  can.” 

Desiring,  then,  to  be  in  power,  and  feeling  that  his 
abilities  and  the  public  confidence  were  not  alone  sufficient  to 
keep  him  in  power  against  the  wishes  of  the  Court  and  of  the 
aristocracy,  he  began  to  think  of  a coalition  with  Newcastle. 

Newcastle  was  equally  disposed  to  a reconciliation.  He, 


76 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


too,  had  profited  by  his  recent  experience.  He  had  fow  id 
that  the  Court  and  the  aristocracy,  though  powerful,  ware 
not  everything  in  the  state.  A strong  oligarchical  connec- 
tion, a great  borough  interest,  ample  patronage,  and  secret- 
service  money,  might,  in  quiet  times,  be  all  that  a Minister 
needed  ; but  it  was  unsafe  to  trust  wholly  to  such  support  in 
time  of  war,  of  discontent,  and  of  agitation.  The  composi- 
tion of  the  House  of  Commons  was  not  wholly  aristocrat- 
ical ; and,  whatever  be  the  composition  of  large  deliberative 
assemblies,  their  spirit  is  always  in  some  degree  popular. 
Where  there  are  free  debates,  eloquence  must  have  admirers, 
and  reason  must  make  converts.  Where  there  is  a free  press, 
the  governors  must  live  in  constant  awe  of  the  opinions  of  the 
governed. 

Under  these  circumstances,  Pitt  was  not  disposed  to  pro- 
ceed to  extremities  against  his  predecessors  in  office.  Some- 
thing, however,  was  due  to  consistency ; and  something  was 
necessary  for  the  preservation  of  his  popularity.  He  did 
little ; but  that  little  he  did  in  such  a manner  as  to  produce 
great  effect.  lie  came  down  to  the  House  in  all  the  pomp 
of  gout,  his  legs  swathed  in  flannels,  his  arm  dangling  in  a 
sling.  He  kept  his  seat  through  several  fatiguing  days,  in 
spite  of  pain  and  languor.  He  uttered  a few  sharp  and  vehe- 
ment sentences  ; but  during  the  greater  part  of  the  discussion, 
his  language  was  unusually  gentle. 

When  the  inquiry  had  terminated  without  a vote  either 
of  approbation  or  of  censure,  the  great  obstacle  to  a coalition 
was  removed.  Many  obstacles,  however,  remained.  The 
King  was  still  rejoicing  in  his  deliverance  from  the  proud  and 
aspiring  Minister  who  had  been  forced  on  him  by  the  cry  o 
the  nation.  His  Majesty’s  indignation  was  excited  to  the 
highest  point  when  it  appeared  that  Newcastle,  who  had, 
during  thirty  years,  been  loaded  with  marks  of  royal  favor, 
and  who' had  bound  himself,  by  a solemn  promise,  never  to 
coalesce  with  Pitt,  was  meditating  a new  perfidy.  Of  all  the 
statesmen  of  that  age,  Fox  had  the  largest  share  of  royal 
favor.  A coalition  between  Fox  and  Newcastle  was  the 
arrangement  which  the  King  wished  to  bring  about.  But 
the  Duke  was  too  cunning  to  fall  into  such  a snare.  As  a 
speaker  in  Parliament,  Fox  might  perhaps  be,  on  the  whole, 
as  useful  to  an  administration  as  his  great  rival ; but  he  was 
one  of  the  most  unpopular  men  in  England.  Then,  again, 
Newcastle  felt  all  that  jealousy  of  Fox,  which,  according  to 
the  proverb,  generally  exists  between  two  of  a trade.  Fox 


WittlAM  PITT,  PART  OP  CHATHAM. 


77 


Would  certainly  intermeddle  with  that  department  which  the 
Duke  was  most  desirous  to  reserve  entire  to  himself,  the 
jobbing  department.  Pitt,  on  the  other  hand,  was  quite 
willing  to  leave  the  drudgery  of  corruption  to  any  who  might 
be  inclined  to  undertake  it. 

During  eleven  weeks  England  remained  without  a min- 
istry ; and  in  the  mean  time  Parliament  was  sitting,  and  a 
war  was  raging.  The  prejudices  of  the  King,  the  haughtiness  of 
Pitt,  the  jealousy,  levity,  and  treachery  of  Newcastle,  delayed 
the  settlement.  Pitt  knew  the  Duke  too  well  to  trust  him 
without  security.  The  Duke  loved  power  too  much  to  be 
inclined  to  give  security.  While  they  were  haggling,  the 
King  was  in  vain  attempting  to  produce  a final  rupture  be- 
tween them,  or  to  form  a Government  without  them.  At 
one  time  he  applied  to  Lord  Waldgrave,  an  honest  and  sen- 
sible man,  but  unpractised  in  affairs.  Lord  Waldgrave  had 
the  courage  to  accept  the  Treasury,  but  soon  found  that  no 
administration  formed  by  him  had  the  smallest  chance  of 
standing  a single  week. 

At  length  the  King’s  pertinacity  yielded  to  the  necessity 
of  the  case.  After  exclaiming  with  great  bitterness,  and  with 
some  justice,  against  the  Whigs,  who  ought,  he  said,  to  be 
ashamed  to  talk  about  liberty  while  they  submitted  to  the 
footmen  of  the  Duke  of  Newcastle,  his  Majesty  submitted. 
The  influence  of  Leicester  House  prevailed  on  Pitt  to  abate 
a little,  and  hut  a little,  of  his  high  demands ; and  all  at  once, 
out  of  the  chaos  in  which  parties  had  for  some  time  been 
rising,  falling,  meeting,  separating,  arose  a government  as 
strong  at  home  as  that  of  Pelham,  as  successful  abroad  as 
that  of  Godolphin. 

Newcastle  took  the  Treasury.  Pitt  was  Secretary  of 
State,  with  the  lead  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  with  the 
supreme  direction  of  the  war  and  of  foreign  affairs.  Fox', 
the  only  man  who  could  have  given  much  annoyance  to  the 
new  Government,  was  silenced  with  the  office  of  Paymaster, 
which,  during  the  continuance  of  that  war,  was  probably  the 
most  lucrative  place  in  the  whole  Government.  He  was  poor, 
and  the  situation  was  tempting ; yet  it  cannot  but  seem  ex- 
traordinary that  a man  who  had  played  a first  part  in  politics, 
and  whose  abilities  had  been  found  not  unequal  to  that  part, 
who  had  sat  in  the  Cabinet,  who  had  led  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, who  had  been  twicv  intrusted  by  the  King  with  the 
office  of  forming  a ministry,  who  was  regarded  as  the  rival 
of  Pitt,  and  who  at  one  tune  seemed  likely  to  be  a successful 


7$  MACAtTt,AY*S  MtSCELtANEOtTS  WHIT ttWS. 

rival,  should  have  consented,  for  the  sake  of  cmo\irmem},  tj 
take  a subordinate  place,  and  to  give  silent  votes  for  all 
the  measures  of  a government  to  the  deliberations  of  which 
he  was  not  summoned. 

The  first  acts  of  the  new  administration  were  characterized 
rather  by  vigor  than  by  judgment.  Expeditions  were  sent 
against  different  parts  of  the  French  coast  with  little  success. 
The  small  island  of  Aix  was  taken,  Rochefort  threatened,  a 
few  ships  burned  in  the  harbor  of  St.  Maloes,  and  a few 
guns  and  mortars  brought  home  as  trophies  from  the  fortifi- 
cations of  Cherbourg.  But  soon  conquests  of  a very  differ- 
ent kind  filled  the  kingdom  with  pride  and  rejoicing.  A 
succession  of  victories  undoubtedly  brilliant,  and,  as  it  was 
thought,  not  barren,  raised  to  the  highest  point  the  fame  of 
the  minister  to  whom  the  conduct  of  the  war  had  been  in- 
trusted. In  July,  1758,  Louisburg  fell.  The  whole  island 
of  Cape  Breton  was  reduced.  The  fleet  to  which  the  Court 
of  Versailles  had  confided  the  defence  of  French  America 
was  destroyed.  The  captured  standards  were  borne  in  tri- 
umph from  Kensington  Palace  to  the  city,  and  were  suspended 
in  St.  Paul’s  Church,  amidst  the  roar  of  guns  and  kettle- 
drums, and  the  shouts  of  an  immense  multitude.  Addresses 
of  congratulation  came  in  from  all  the  great  towns  of  Eng- 
land. Parliament  met  only  to  decree  thanks  and  monu- 
ments, and  to  bestow,  without  one  murmur,  supplies  more 
than  double  of  those  which  had  been  given  during  the  war 
of  the  Grand  Alliance. 

The  year  1759  opened  with  the  conquest  of  Goree.  Next 
fell  Guadaloupe ; then  Ticonderoga ; then  Niagara.  The 
Toulon  squadron  was  completely  defeated  by  Boscawen  off 
Cape  Lagos.  But  the  greatest  exploit  of  the  year  was  the 
achievement  of  Wolfe  on  the  heights  of  Abraham.  The 
news  of  his  glorious  death  and  of  the  fall  of  Quebec  reached 
London  in  the  very  week  in  which  the  Houses  met.  All  was 
joy  and  triumph.  Envy  and  faction  were  forced  to  join  in 
the  general  applause.  Whigs  and  Tories  vied  with  each 
other  in  extolling  the  genius  and  energy  of  Pitt.  His  col- 
leagues were  never  talked  of  or  thought  of.  The  House  of 
Commons,  the  nation,  the  colonies,  our  allies,  our  enemies, 
had  their  eyes  fixed  on  him  alone. 

Scarcely  had  Parliament  voted  a monument  to  Wolfe 
when  another  great  event  called  for  fresh  rejoicings.  The 
Brest  fleet,  under  the  command  of  Conflans,  had  put  out  to 
eea.  It  was  overtaken  by  an  English  squadron  under 


WILLIAM  PITT,  EARL  OP  CHATHAM. 


79 


Hawke.  Conflans  attempted  to  take  shelter  close  under  the 
French  coast.  The  shore  was  rocky  : the  night  was  black  : 
the  wind  was  furious : the  waves  of  the  Bay  of  Biscay  ran 
high.  But  Pitt  had  infused  into  every  branch  of  the  ser- 
vice a spirit  which  had  long  been  unknown.  No  British 
seaman  was  disposed  to  err  on  the  same  side  with  Byng. 
The  pilot  told  Hawke  that  the  attack  could  not  be  made 
without  the  greatest  danger.  “ You  have  done  your  duty 
in  remonstrating,”  answered  Hawke ; “ I will  answer  for 
everything.  I command  you  to  lay  me  alongside  the 
French  admiral.”  Two  French  ships  of  the  line  struck. 
Four  were  destroyed.  The  rest  hid  themselves  in  the  rivers 
of  Britanny. 

The  year  1760  came  ; and  still  triumph  followed  triumph. 
Montreal  was  taken ; the  whole  province  of  Canada  was 
subjugated;  the  French  fleets  underwent  a succession  of 
disasters  in  the  seas  of  Europe  and  America. 

In  the  mean  time  conquests  equalling  in  rapidity,  and  far 
surpassing  in  magnitude,  those  of  Cortes  and  Pizarro,  had 
been  achieved  in  the  East.  In  the  space  of  three  years  the 
English  had  founded  a mighty  empire.  The  French  had 
been  defeated  in  every  part  of  India.  Chandernagore  had 
surrendered  to  Clive,  Pondicherry  to  Coote.  Throughout 
Bengal,  Bahar,  Orissa  and  the  Carnatic,  the  authority  of  the 
East  India  Company  was  more  absolute  than  that  of  Acbar 
or  Aurungzebe  had  ever  been. 

Oil  the  continent  of  Europe  the  odds  were  against  Eng- 
land. We  had  but  one  important  ally,  the  King  of  Prussia ; 
and  he  was  attacked,  not  only  by  France,  but  also  by  Russia 
and  Austria.  Yet  even  on  the  Continent,  the  energy  of  Pitt 
triumphed  over  all  difficulties.  Vehemently  as  he  had  con 
demned  the  practice  of  subsidizing  foreign  princes,  he  now 
carried  that  practice  farther  than  Carteret  himself  would 
have  ventured  to  do.  The  active  and  able  Sovereign  of 
Prussia  received  such  pecuniary  assistance  as  enabled  him 
to  maintain  the  conflict  on  equal  terms  against  his  powerful 
enemies.  On  no  subject  had  Pitt  ever  spoken  with  so  much 
eloquence  and  ardor  as  on  the  mischiefs  of  the  Hanoverian 
connection.  He  now  declared,  not  without  much  show  of 
reason,  that  it  would  be  unworthy  of  the  English  people  to 
suffer  their  King  to  be  deprived  of  his  electoral  dominions 
in  an  English  quarrel.  He  assured  his  countrymen  that  they 
should  be  no  losers,  and  that  he  would  conquer  America  for 
them  Germany.  By  taking  this  line  he  conciliated  the 


80 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


King,  and  lost  no  part  of  his  influence  with  the  nation.  In 
Parliament,  such  was  the  ascendency  which  his  eloquence,  his 
success,  his  high  situation,  his  pride,  and  his  intrepidity  had 
obtained  for  him,  that  he  took  liberties  with  the  House  of  which 
there  had  been  no  example,  and  which  have  never  since  been 
imitated.  No  orator  could  there  venture  to  reproach  him  with 
inconsistency.  One  unfortunate  manmade  the  attempt,  and 
was  so  much  disconcerted  by  the  scornful  demeanor  of  the 
Minister  that  he  stammered,  stopped,  and  sat  down.  Even 
the  old  Tory  country  gentlemen,  to  whom  the  very  name 
of  Hanover  had  been  odious,  gave  their  hearty  Ayes  to  sub- 
sidy after  subsidy.  In  a lively  contemporary  satire,  much 
more  lively  indeed  than  delicate,  this  remarkable  conversion 
is  not  unhappily  described. 

“ No  more  they  make  a fiddle-faddle 
About  a Hessian  horse  or  saddle. 

No  more  of  continental  measures; 

No  more  of  wasting  British  treasures. 

Ten  millions,  and  a vote  of  credit, 

’Tis  right.  He  can’t  be  wrong  who  did  it.” 

The  success  of  Pitt’s  continental  measures  was  such  as 
might  have  been  expected  from  their  vigor.  When  he  came 
into  power,  Hanover  was  in  imminent  danger ; and  before 
he  had  been  in  ofiice  three  months,  the  whole  electorate 
was  in  the  hands  of  France.  But  the  face  of  affairs  was 
speedily  changed.  The  invaders  were  driven  out.  An  army, 
partly  English,  partly  Hanoverian,  partly  composed  of  sol- 
diers furnished  by  the  petty  princes  of  Germany,  was  placed 
under  the  command  of  Prince  Ferdinand  of  Brunswick. 
The  French  were  beaten  in  1758  at  Crevelt.  In  1759  they 
received  a still  more  complete  and  humiliating  defeat  at 
Minden. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  nation  exhibited  all  the  signs  of 
wealth  and  prosperity.  The  merchants  of  London  had 
never  been  more  thriving.  The  importance  of  several  great 
commercial  and  manufacturing  towns,  of  Glasgow  in  par- 
ticular, dates  from  this  period.  The  fine  inscription  on  the 
monument  of  Lord  Chatham  in  Guildhall  records  the  gen- 
eral opinion  of  the  citizens  of  London,  that  under  his  admin- 
istration commerce  had  been  “ united  with  and  made  to 
flourish  by  war.” 

It  must  be  owned  that  these  signs  of  prosperity  Tvere  in 
some  degree  delusive.  It  must  be  owned  that  some  of  our 
conquests  were  rather  splendid  than  useful.  It  must  be 


WILLIAM  PITT,  EAB’.L  OF  CHATHAM. 


81 


owned  that  the  expense  of  the  war  never  entered  into  Pitt’s 
consideration.  Perhaps  it  would  be  more  correct  to  say  that 
the  cost  of  his  victories  increased  the  pleasure  with  which 
he  contemplated  them.  Unlike  other  men  in  liis  situation, 
he  loved  to  exaggerate  the  sums  which  the  nation  was  lay- 
ing out  under  his  direction.  He  was  proud  of  the  sacrifices 
and  efforts  which  his  eloquence  and  his  success  had  induced 
his  countrymen  to  make.  The  price  at  which  he  purchased 
faithful  service  and  complete  victory,  though  far  smaller 
than  that  which  his  son,  the  most  profuse  and  incapable  of 
war  ministers,  paid  for  treachery,  defeat,  and  shame,  was  long 
and  severely  felt  by  the  nation. 

Even  as  a war  minister,  Pitt  is  scarcely  entitled  to  all  the 
praise  which  his  contemporaries  lavished  on  him.  We,  per- 
haps from  ignorance,  cannot  discern  in  his  arrangements 
any  appearance  of  profound  or  dexterous  combination. 
Several  of  his  expeditions,  particularly  those  which  were 
sent  to  the  coast  of  France,  were  at  once  costly  and  absurd. 
Our  Indian  conquests,  though  they  add  to  the  splendor  of 
the  period  during  which  he  was  at  the  head  of  affairs,  were 
not  planned  by  him.  lie  had  undoubtedly  great  energy,  great 
determination,  great  means  at  his  command.  His  temper 
was  enterprising ; and,  situated  as  he  was,  he  had  only  to 
follow  his  temper.  The  wealth  of  a rich  nation,  the  valor 
of  a brave  nation,  were  ready  to  support  him  in  every  at- 
tempt. 

In  respect,  however,  he  deserved  all  the  praise  that  he 
has  ever  received.  The  success  of  our  arms  was  perhaps 
owing  less  to  the  skill  of  his  dispositions  than  to  the  na- 
tional resources  and  the  national  spirit.  But  that  the 
national  spirit  rose  to  the  emergency,  that  the  national  re- 
sources were  contributed  with  unexampled  cheerfulness, 
this  was  undoubtedly  his  work.  The  ardor  of  his  soul  had  set 
the  whole  kingdom  on  fire.  It  inflamed  every  soldier  who 
dragged  the  cannon  up  to  the  heights  of  Quebec,  and  every 
sailor  who  boarded  the  French  ships  among  the  rocks  of 
Britanny.  The  Minister,  before  he  had  been  long  in  office, 
had  imparted  to  the  commanders  whom  he  employed  his 
own  impetuous,  adventurous,  and  defying  character.  They, 
like  him,  were  disposed  to  risk  everything,  to  play  double  or 
quits  to  the  last,  to  think  nothing  done  while  anything  re- 
mained undone,  to  fail  rather  than  not  to  attempt.  For  the 
errors  of  rashness  there  might  be  indulgence.  For  oV'er- 
eaution,  for  faults  like  those  of  Lord  George  Sackville,  there 
Yol.  II.— 6 


32  macaul^y's  gs. 

was  no  mercy.  In  other  times,  and  r.gainst  other  enemies, 
this  mode  of  warfare  might  have  failed.  But  the  state  of 
the  French  government  and  of  the  French  nation  gave  every 
advantage  to  Pitt.  The  fops  and  intriguers  of  Versailles 
were  appalled  and  bewildered  by  his  vigor.  A panic  spread 
through  all  ranks  of  society.  Our  enemies  soon  considered 
it  as  a settled  thing  that  they  were  always  to  bo  beaten. 
Thus  victory  begot  victory  ; till,  at  last,  wherever  the  forces 
of  the  two  nations  met,  they  met  with  disdainful  confidenqe 
on  one  side,  and  with  a craven  fear  on  the  other. 

The  situation  which  Pitt  occupied  at  the  close  of  the 
reign  of  George  the  Second  was  the  most  enviable  ever 
occupied  by  any  public  man  in  English  history.  He  had 
conciliated  the  King;  he  domineered  over  the  House  of 
Commons  ; he  was  adored  by  the  people ; he  was  admired 
by  all  Europe.  He  was  the  first  Englishman  of  his  time; 
and  he  had  made  England  the  first  country  in  the  world. 
The  Great  Commoner,  the  name  by  which  he  was  often 
designated,  might  look  down  with  scorn  on  coronets  and 
garters.  The  nation  w^as  drunk  with  joy  and  pride.  The 
Parliament  was  as  quiet  as  it  had  been  under  Pelham.  The 
old  party  distinctions  were  almost  effaced ; nor  was  their 
place  yet  supplied  by  distinctions  of  a still  more  important 
kind.  A new  generation  of  country  squires  and  rectors  had 
arisen  who  knew  not  the  Stuarts.  The  Dissenters  were 
• tolerated  ; the  Catholics  not  cruelly  persecuted.  The  Church 
was  drowsy  and  indulgent.  The  great  civil  and  religious 
conflict  which  began  at  the  Reformation  seemed  to  have 
terminated  in  universal  repose.  Whigs  and  Tories,  Church- 
men and  Puritans,  spoke  witli  equal  reverence  of  the  consti- 
tution, and  with  equal  enthusiasm  of  the  talents,  virtues,  and 
services  of  the  Minister. 

A few  years  sufficed  to  change  the  whole  aspect  of 
affairs.  A nation  convulsed  by  faction,  a throne  assailed 
by  the  fiercest  invective,  a House  of  Commons  hated  and 
despised  by  the  nation,  England  set  against  Scotland,  Britain 
set  against  America,  a rival  legislature  sitting  beyond  the 
Atlantic,  English  blood  shed  by  English  bayonets,  our  armies 
capitulating,  our  conquests  wrested  from  us,  our  enemies 
hastening  to  take  vengeance  for  past  humiliation,  our  flag 
scarcely  able  to  maintain  itself  in  our  own  seas,  such  was 
the  spectacle  which  Pitt  lived  to  see.  But  the  history  of 
this  great  revolution  requires  far  more  space  than  we  can  at 
present  bestow.  We  leave  the  Great  Commoner  in  the 


§m  JAMfcS  MAC&t&TOSEL 


fcenith  of  his  glory.  It  is  not  impossible  that  we  may  take 
some  other  opportunity  of  tracing  his  life  to  its  melancholy, 
yet  not  inglorious  close* 


SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH  * 

( Edinburgh  Review , July , 1835.) 

It  is  with  unfeigned  diffidence  that  we  venture  to  give 
our  opinion  of  the  last  work  of  Sir  James  Mackintosh.  We 
have  in  vain  tried  to  perform  what  ought  to  be  to  a critic 
an  easy  and  habitual  act.  We  have  in  vain  tried  to  separate 
the  book  from  the  writer,  and  to  judge  of  it  as  if  it  bore 
some  unknown  name.  But  it  is  to  no  purpose.  All  the 
lines  of  that  venerable  countenance  are  before  us.  All  the 
little  peculiar  cadences  of  that  voice  from  which  scholars 
and  statesmen  loved  to  receive  lessons  of  a serene  and 
benevolent  wisdom  are  in  our  ears.  We  will  attempt  to 
preserve  strict  impartiality.  But  we  are  not  ashamed  to 
own  that  we  approach  this  relic  of  a virtuous  and  most  ac- 
complished man  with  feelings  of  respect  and  gratitude 
which  may  possibly  pervert  our  judgment. 

It  is  hardly  possible  to  avoid  instituting  a comparison 
between  this  work  and  another  celebrated  Fragment.  Our 
readers  will  easily  guess  that  we  allude  to  Mr.  Fox’s  History 
of  James  the  Second.  The  two  books  relate  to  the  same 

* History  of  the  Revolution  in  England , in  1688.  Comprising  a View  of  the  Reign 
of  James  the  Second,  from  his  Accession  to  the  Enterprise  of  the  Prince  of  Orange , 
by  the  late  Right  Honorable  Sir  James  Mackintosh  ; and  completed  to  the 
Settlement  of  the  Crown,  by  the  Editor.  To  which  is  prefixed  a Notice  of  the  Life , 
Writings,  and  Speeches  of  Sir  James  Mackintosh.  4to.  London:  1834.1 

l In  this  review,  as  it  originally  stood,  the  editor  of  the  History  of  the  Revolu- 
tion was  attacked  with  an  asperity  which  neither  literary  defects  nor  speculative 
idfferences  can  justify,  and  which  ought  to  be  reserved  for  offences  against  the 
laws  of  morality  and  honor.  The  reviewer  was  not  actuated  by  any  feeling  of 
personal  malevolence  : for  when  he  wrote  this  paper  in  a distant  country,  he  did 
not  know,  or  even  guess,  whom  he  was  assailing.  His  only  motive  was  regard 
for  the  memory  of  an  eminent  man  whom  he  loved  and  honored,  and  who  ap- 
peared to  him  to  have  been  unworthily  treated. 

The  editor  is  now  dead  ; and,  while  living,  declared  that  he  had  been  misunder- 
stood, and  that  he  had  written  in  no  spirit  of  enmity  to  Sir  James  Mackintosh, 
for  whom  he  professed  the  highest  respect. 

Many  passages  have  therefore  been  softened,  and  some  wholly  omitted.  The 
severe  censure" passed  on  the  literary  execution  of  the  Memoir  and  the  Continua- 
tion could  not  be  retracted  without  a violation  of  truth.  But  whatever  could  be 
construed  into  an  imputation  on  the  moral  character  of  the  editor  has  been  care* 
fully  expunged. 


84 


MACAULAY* S MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS* 


subject.  Both  were  posthumously  published.  Neither  had 
received  the  last  corrections.  The  authors  belonged  to  the 
same  political  party,  and  held  the  same  opinions  concerning 
the  merits  and  defects  of  the  English  constitution,  and  con- 
cerning most  of  the  prominent  characters  and  events  in 
English  history.  Both  had  thought  much  on  the  principles 
of  government  ; yet  they  were  not  mere  speculators.  Both 
had  ransacked  the  archives  of  rival  kingdoms,  and  pored  on 
folios  which  had  mouldered  for  ages  in  deserted  libraries ; 
yet  they  were  not  mere  antiquaries.  They  had  one  eminent 
qualification  for  writing  history : they  had  spoken  history, 
acted  history,  lived  history.  The  turns  of  political  fortune, 
the  ebb  and  flow  of  popular  feeling,  the  hidden  mechanism 
by  which  parties  are  moved,  all  these  things  were  the  sub- 
jects of  their  constant  thought  and  of  their  most  familiar 
conversation.  Gibbon  has  remarked  that  he  owed  part  of 
his  success  as  a historian  to  the  observations  which  he  had 
made  as  an  officer  in  the  militia  and  as  a member  of  the 
House  of  Commons.  The  remark  is  most  just.  We  have 
not  the  smallest  doubt  that  his  campaign,  though  he  never 
saw  an  enemy,  and  his  parliamentary  attendance,  though  he 
never  made  a speech,  were  of  far  more  use  to  him  than 
years  of  retirement  and  study  would  have  been.  If  the 
time  that  he  spent  on  parade  and  at  mess  m Hampshire,  or 
on  th&  Treasury  bench  and  at  Brookes’s  during  the  storms 
which  overthrew  Lord  North  and  Lord  Shelburne,  had  been 
passed  in  the  Bodleian  Library,  he  might  have  avoided 
some  inaccuracies  ; he  might  have  enriched  his  notes  with  a 
greater  number  of  references ; but  he  would  never  have  pro- 
duced so  lively  a picture  of  the  court,  the  camp,  and  the 
senate-house.  In  this  respect  Mr.  Fox  and  Sir  James  Mack- 
intosh had  great  advantages  over  almost  every  English 
historian  who  has  written  since  the  time  of  Burnet.  Lord 
Lyttelton  had  indeed  the  same  advantages  ; but  he  was  in- 
capable of  using  them.  Pedantry  was  so  deeply  fixed  in  his 
nature  that  the  hustings,  the  Treasury,  the  Exchequer,  the 
House  of  Commons,  the  House  of  Lords,  left  him  the  same 
dreaming  schoolboy  that  they  found  him. 

When  we  compare  the  two  interesting  works  of  which 
we  have  been  speaking,  we  have  little  difficulty  in  giving 
the  preference  to  that  of  Sir  James  Mackintosh.  Indeed 
the  superiority  of  Mr.  Fox  to  Sir  James  as  an  orator  is 
hardly  more  clear  than  the  superiority  of  Sir  James  to  Mr 
Fox  as  an  historian.  Mr.  Fox  with  a pen  in  hi*3  hand,  and 


gm  JAMES  MACKINTOSH, 


85 


Sir  James  on  his  legs  in  the  House  of  Commons,  were,  we 
think,  each  out  of  his  proper  element.  They  were  men,  it 
is  true,  of  far  too  much  judgment  and  ability  to  fail  scandal- 
ously in  any  undertaking  to  which  they  brought  the  whole 
power  of  their  minds.  The  history  of  James  the  Second 
will  always  keep  its  place  in  our  libraries  as  a valuable  book ; 
and  Sir  James  Mackintosh  succeeded  in  winning  and  main- 
taining a high  place  among  the  parliamentary  speakers  of 
his  time.  Yet  we  could  never  read  a page  of  Mr.  Fox’s 
writing,  we  could  never  listen  for  a quarter  of  an  hour  to 
the  speaking  of  Sir  James,  without  feeling  that  there  was  a 
constant  effort,  a tug  up  hill.  Nature,  or  habit  which  had 
become  nature,  asserted  its  rights.  Mr.  Fox  wrote  debates. 
Sir  James  Mackintosh  spoke  essays. 

As  far  as  mere  diction  was  concerned,  indeed,  Mr.  Fox 
did  his  best  to  avoid  those  faults  which  the  habit  of  public 
speaking  is  likely  to  generate.  He  was  so  nervously  appre- 
hensive of  sliding  into  some  colloquial  incorrectness,  of 
debasing  his  style  by  a mixture  of  parliamentary  slang,  that 
he  ran  into  the  opposite  error,  and  purified  his  vocabulary 
with  a scrupulosity  unknowTn  to  any  purist.  “ Ciceronem 
Allobroga  dixit.”  He  would  not  allow  Addison,  Boling- 
broke  or  Middleton  to  be  asufhcicnt  authority  for  an  expres- 
sion. He  declared  that  he  would  use  no  word  which  was 
not  to  be  found  in  Dryden.  In  any  other  person  we  should 
have  called  this  solicitude  mere  foppery;  and,  in  spite  of  all 
our  admiration  for  Mr.  Fox,  we  cannot  but  think  that  his 
extreme  attention  to  the  petty  niceties  of  language  was 
hardly  worthy  of  so  manly  and  so  capacious  an  understand- 
ing. There  were  purists  of  this  kind  at  Rome ; and  their 
fastidiousness  was  censured  by  Horace,  with  that  perfect 
good  sense  and  good  taste  which  characterize  all  his  wri- 
tings. There  were  purists  of  this  kind  at  the  time  of  the  re- 
vival of  letters ; and  the  two  greatest  scholars  of  that  time 
raised  their  voices,  the  one  from  within,  and  the  other  from 
without  the  Alps,  against  a scrupulosity  so  unreasonable. 
“ Carent,”  said  Politian,  “ quae  scribunt  isti  viribus  et  vita 
carent  actu,  carent  effectu,  carent  indole.  * * * Nisi, 

liber  ille  praesto  sit  ex  quo  quid  excerpant,  colligere  tria 
verba  non  possunt.  * * * * Ilorum  semper  igitur  oratio 

tremula,  vicillans,  infirma.  * * * Quaeso  ne  ista  super- 
stition e te  alliges.  * * * Ut  bene  currere  non  potest 

qui  pedem  ponere  studet  m alien  is  tan  turn  vestigiis,  ita  neo 
bene  scribere  qui  tanquam  de  praescripto  non  audet  egredi.’' 


86  HACAtn^r’s  tascJCLlAXEotrd  '\vtnmfG84 

— “Posthac,”  exclaims  Erasmus,  “non  licebit  episcopof^ 
appellare  patres  reverendos,  riec  in  calce  literarum  scribere 
annum  a Christo  nato,  quod  id  nusquam  facial  Cicero.  Quid 
autem  ineptius  quam,  toto  seculo  noyato,  religione,  imperils, 
magistratibus,  locorum  vocabulis,  aedificiis,  cultu,  moribus, 
non  aliter  audere  loqui  quam  locutus  est  Cicero  ? Si  revi- 
visceret  ipse  Cicero,  riderct  hoc  Ciceronianorum  genus.” 

While  Mr.  Fox  winnowed  and  sifted  his  phraseology 
with  a care  which  seems  hardly  consistent  with  the  sim- 
plicity and  elevation  of  his  mind,  and  of  which  the  effect 
really  was  to  debase  and  enfeeble  his  style,  he  was  little  on 
his  guard  against  those  more  serious  improprieties  of  man- 
ner into  which  a great  orator  who  undertakes  to  write  his- 
tory is  in  danger  of  falling.  There  is  about  the  whole  book 
a vehement,  contentious,  replying  manner.  Almost  every 
argument  is  put  in  the  form  of  an  interrogation,  an  ejacula- 
tion, or  a sarcasm.  The  writer  seems  to  be  addressing  him- 
self to  some  imaginary  audience,  to  be  tearing  in  pieces  a 
defence  of  the  Stuarts  which  has  just  been  pronounced  by 
an  imaginary  Tory.  Take,  for  example,  his  answer  to 
Hume’s  remarks  on  the  execution  of  Sydney ; and  substitute 
“the  honorable  gentleman  n or  “ the  noble  Lord  ” for  the 
name  of  Hume.  The  whole  passage  sounds  like  a powerful 
reply,  thundered  at  three  in  the  morning  from  the  Opposi- 
tion Bench.  While  we  read  it,  we  can  almost  fancy  that  we 
see  and  hear  the  great  English  debater,  such  as  he  has  been 
described  to  us  by  the  few  who  can  still  remember  the 
Westminster  scrutiny  and  the  Oczakow  Negotiations,  in  the 
full  paroxysm  of  inspiration,  foaming,  screaming,  choked  by 
the  rushing  multitude  of  his  words. 

It  is  true  that  the  passage  to  which  we  have  referred, 
and  several  other  passages  which  we  could  point  out,  are 
admirable  when  considered  merely  as  exhibitions  of  mental 
power.  Went  once  recognize  in  them  that  consummate  mastei 
of  the  whole  art  of  intellectual  gladiatorship,  whose  speeches, 
imperfectly  as  they  have  been  transmitted  to  us,  should  be 
studied  day  and  night  by  every  man  who  wishes  to  learn 
the  science  of  logical  defence.  We  find  in  several  parts  of 
the  History  of  James  the  Second  fine  specimens  of  thaf 
which  we  conceive  to  have  been  the  great  characteristic  of 
Demosthenes  among  the  Greeks,  and  of  Fox  among  the 
orators  of  England,  reason  penetrated,  and,  if  we  may  ven- 
ture on  the  expression,  made  red-hot  by  passion.  But  this 
is  not  the  kind  of  excellence  proper  to  history ; and  it  ifi 


SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


87 


hardly  too  much  to  say  that  whatever  is  strikingly  good  in 
Mr.  Fox’s  Fragment  is  out  of  place. 

With  Sir  James  Mackintosh  the  case  was  reversed.  His 
proper  place  was  his  library,  a circle  of  men  of  letters,  or  a 
chair  of  moral  and  political  philosophy.  He  distinguished 
himself  highly  in  Parliament.  But  nevertheless  Parliament 
was  not  exactly  the  sphere  for  him.  The  effect  of  his  most 
successful  speeches  was  small  when  compared  with  the 
quantity  of  ability  and  learning  which  was  expended  on 
them.  We  could  easily  name  men  who,  not  possessing  the 
tenth  part  of  his  intellectual  powers,  hardly  ever  address 
the  House'of  Commons  without  producing  a greater  impres- 
sion than  was  produced  by  his  most  splendid  and  elaborate 
orations.  His  luminous  and  philosophical  disquisition  on 
the  Reform  Bill  was  spoken  to  empty  benches.  Those, 
indeed,  who  had  the  wit  to  keep  their  seat,  picked  up 
hints  which,  skilfully  used,  made  the  fortune  of  more  than 
one  speech.  But  “it  was  caviare  to  the  general.”  And 
even  those  who  listened  to  Sir  James  with  pleasure  and  ad- 
miration could  not  but  acknowledge  that  he  rather  lectured 
than  debated.  An  artist  who  should  waste  on  a panorama, 
or  a scene,  or  on  a transparency,  the  exquisite  finishing 
which  we  admire  in  some  of  the  small  Dutch  interiors,  would 
not  squander  his  powers  more  than  this  eminent  man  too  often 
did.  His  audience  resembled  the  boy  in  the  Heart  of  Mid- 
Lothian,  who  pushes  away  the  lady’s  guineas  with  contempt, 
and  insists  on  having  the  white  money.  They  preferred  the 
silver  with  which  they  were  familiar,  and  which  they  were 
constantly  passing  about  from  hand  to  hand,  to  the  gold 
which  they  had  never  before  seen,  and  with  the  value  of 
which  they  were  unacquainted. 

It  is  much  to  be  regretted,  we  think,  that  Sir  James 
Mackintosh  did  not  wholly  devote  his  later  years  to  phi- 
losophy and  literature.  Ilis  talents  were  not  those  which 
enable  a speaker  to  produce  with  rapidity  a series  of  strik- 
ing but  transitory  impressions,  and  to  excite  the  minds  of 
five  hundred  gentlemen  at  midnight,  without  saying  any- 
thing that  any  one  of  them  will  be  able  to  remember  in  the 
morning.  His  arguments  were  of  a very  different  texture 
from  those  which  are  produced  in  Parliament  at  a moment’s 
notice,  which  puzzle  a plain  man  who,  if  he  had  them  be- 
fore him  in  writing,  would  soon  detect  their  fallacy,  and 
which  the  great  debater  who  employs  them  forgets  wTithin 
half  an  hour,  and  never  thinks  of  again.  Whatever  was 


88  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings* 

valuable  in  the  composition  of  Sir  James  Mackintosh  was 
the  ripe  fruit  of  study  and  of  meditation.  It  was  the  same 
with  his  conversation.  In  his  most  familiar  talk  there  was 
no  wildness,  no  inconsistency,  no  amusing  nonsense,  no 
exaggeration  for  the  sake  of  momentary  effect.  His  mind 
was  a vast  magazine,  admirably  arranged.  Everything  was 
there  ; and  everything  was  in  its  place.  His  judgments  on 
men,  on  sects,  on  books,  had  been  often  and  carefully  tested 
and  weighed,  and  had  then  been  committed,  each  to  his 
proper  receptacle,  in  the  most  capacious  and  accurately 
constructed  memory  that  any  human  being  ever  possessed 
It  would  have  been  strange  indeed  if  you  had  asked  for  any- 
thing that  was  not  to  be  found  in  that  immense  storehouse. 
The  article  which  you  required  was  not  only  there.  It  was 
ready.  It  was  in  its  own  proper  compartment.  In  a moment 
it  was  brought  down,  unpacked,  and  displayed.  If  those 
who  enjoyed  the  privilege — for  a privilege  indeed  it  was— 
of  listening  to  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  had  been  disposed  to 
find  some  fault  in  his  conversation,  they  might  perhaps 
have  observed  that  he  yielded  too  little  to  the  impulse  of 
the  moment.  He  seemed  to  be  recollecting,  not  creating, 
lie  never  appeared  to  catch  a sudden  glimpse  of  a subject 
in  a new  light.  You  never  saw  his  opinions  in  the  making, 
still  rude,  still  inconsistent,  and  requiring  to  be  fashioned 
by  thought  and  discussion.  They  came  forth,  like  the  pil- 
lars of  that  temple  in  which  no  sound  of  axes  or  hammers 
was  heard,  finished,  rounded,  and  exactly  suited  to  their 
places.  What  Mr.  Charles  Lamb  had  said  with  so  much 
humor  and  some  truth,  of  the  conversation  of  Scotchmen  in 
general,  was  certainly  true  of  this  eminent  Scotchman.  He 
did  not  find,  but  bring.  You  could  not  cry  halves  to  any- 
thing that  turned  up  while  you  were  in  his  company. 

The  intellectual  and  moral  qualities  which  are  most  im- 
portant in  a historian,  he  possessed  in  a very  high  degree, 
lie  was  singularly  mild,  calm  and  impartial  in  his  judg- 
ments of  men,  and  of  parties.  Almost  all  the  distinguished 
writers  who  have  treated  of  English  history  are  advocates. 
Mr.  Hallam  and  Sir  James  Mackintosh  alone  are  entitled  to 
be  called  judges.  But  the  extreme  austerity  of  Mr.  Hal- 
lam takes  away  something  from  the  pleasure  of  reading  his 
learned,  eloquent,  and  judicious  writings.  He  is  a judge, 
but  a hanging  judge,  the  Page  or  B idler  of  the  High  Court 
of  Literary  Justice.  His  black  cap  is  in  constant  requi- 
eition.  In  the  long  calendar  of  those  whom  he  has  tried, 


SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


89 


there  is  hardly  one  who  has  not,  in  spite  of  evidence  to 
character  and  recommendations  to  mercy,  been  sentenced 
and  left  for  execution.  Sir  James,  perhaps,  erred  a lit- 
tle on  the  other  side.  He  liked  a maiden  assize,  and  came 
away  with  white  gloves,  after  sitting  in  judgment  on 
batches  of  the  most  notorious  offenders.  He  had  a quick 
eye  for  the  redeeming  parts  of  a character,  and  a large  toler- 
ation for  the  infirmities  of  men  exposed  to  strong  tempta- 
tions. But  this  lenity  did  not  arise  from  ignorance  or 
neglect  of  moral  distinctions.  Though  he  allowed  perhaps 
too  much  weight  to  every  extenuating  circumstance  that 
could  be  urged  in  favor  of  the  transgressor,  he  never  dis- 
puted the  authority  of  the  law,  or  showed  his  ingenuity  by 
refining  away  its  enactments.  On  every  occasion  he  showed 
himself  firm  where  principles  were  in  question,  but  full  of 
charity  towards  individuals. 

We  have  no  hesitation  in  pronouncing  this  Fragment 
decidedly  the  best  history  now  extant  of  the  reign  of  James 
the  Second.  It  contains  much  new  and  curious  informa- 
tion, of  which  excellent  use  has  been  made.  But  we  are 
not  sure  that  the  book  is  not  in  some  degree  open  to  the 
charge  which  the  idle  citizen  m the  Spectator  brought 
against  his  pudding;  aMem.  too  many  plums,  and  no  suet.” 
There  is  perhaps  too  much  disquisition  and  too  little  narra- 
tive ; and  indeed  this  is  the  fault  into  which,  judging  from 
the  habits  of  Sir  James’s  mind,  we  should  have  thought  him 
most  likely  to  fall.  What  we  assuredly  did  not  anticipate 
was,  that  the  narrative  would  be  better  executed  than  the 
disquisitions.  We  expected  to  find,  and  we  have  found,  many 
just  delineations  of  character,  and  many  digressions  full  of 
interest,  such  as  the  account  of  the  order  of  Jesuits,  and  of 
the  state  of  prison  discipline  in  England  a hundred  and 
fifty  years  ago.  We  expected  to  find,  and  we  have  found, 
many  reflections  breathing  the  spirit  of  a calm  and  be- 
nighted philosophy.  But  we  did  not,  we  own,  expect  to 
find  that  Sir  James  could  tell  a story  as  well  as  Voltaire  or 
Hume.  Yet  such  is  the  fact ; and  if  any  person  doubts  it, 
we  would  advise  him  to  read  the  account  of  the  events 
which  followed  the  issuing  of  King  James’s  declaration,  the 
meeting  of  the  clergy,  the  violent  scene  at  the  privy  council, 
cil,  the  commitment,  trial,  and  acquittal  of  the  bishops. 
The  most  superficial  reader  must  be  charmed,  we  think,  by 
the  liveliness  of  the  narrative.  But  no  person  who  is  not 
acquainted  with  that  vast  mass  of  intractable  materials  of 


yo 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


which  the  valuable  and  interesting  part  lias  been  extracted 
and  condensed  can  fully  appreciate  the  skill  of  the  writer. 
Here,  and  indeed  throughout  the  book,  we  find  many  harsh 
and  careless  expressions  which  the  author  would  probably 
have  removed  if  he  had  lived  to  complete  his  work.  But, 
in  spite  of  these  blemishes,  we  must  say  that  we  should  find 
it  difficult  to  point  out  in  any  modern  history,  any  passage 
of  equal  length  and  at  the  same  time  of  equal  merit.  We 
find  in  it  the  diligence,  the  accuracy,  and  the  judgment  of 
Hallam,  united  to  the  vivacity  and  the  coloring  of  Southey. 
A history  of  England,  written  throughout  in  this  manner, 
would  be  the  most  fascinating  book  in  the  language.  It 
would  be  more  in  request  at  the  circulating  libraries  than 
the  last  novel. 

Sir  James  was  not,  we  think,  gifted  with  poetical  imag- 
ination. But  that  lower  kind  $f  imagination  which  is 
necessary  to  the  historian  he  had  in  large  measure.  It  is 
not  the  business  of  the  historian  to  create  new  worlds  and 
to  people  them  with  new  races  of  beings.  lie  is  to  Homer 
and  Shakspeare,  to  Dante  and  Milton,  what  Nollekens  was 
to  Canova,  or  Lawrence  to  Michael  Angelo.  The  object  of 
the  historian’s  imitation  is  not  within  him ; it  is  furnished 
from  without.  It  is  not  a vision  of  beauty  and  grandeur 
discernible  only  by  the  eye  of  his  own  mind,  but  a real 
model  which  he  did  not  make,  and  which  he  cannot  alter. 
Yet  his  is  not  a mere  mechanical  imitation.  The  triumph 
of  his  skill  is  to  select  such  parts  as  may  produce  the  effect 
of  the  whole,  to  bring  out  strongly  all  the  characteristic 
features,  and  to  throw  the  light  and  shade  in  such  a manner 
as  may  heighten  the  effect.  This  skill,  as.  far  as  we  can 

iTidge,  from  the  unfinished  work  now  before  us,  Sir  James 
lackintosh  possessed  in  an  eminent  degree. 

The  style  of  this  Fragment  is  weighty,  manly,  and  un- 
affected. There  are,  as  we  have  said,  some  expressions 
which  seem  to  us  harsh,'  and  some  which  we  think  inaccur- 
ate. These  would  probably  have  been  corrected,  if  Sir 
James  had  lived  to  superintend  the  publication.  We  ought 
to  add  that  the  printer  has  by  no  means  done  his  duty 
One  misprint,  in  particular,  is  so  serious  as  to  require  no- 
tice. Sir  J ames  Mackintosh  has  paid  a high  and  just  tribute 
to  the  genius,  the  integrity,  and  the  courage  of  a good  and 
great  man,  a distinguished  ornament  of  English  literature, 
a fearless  champion  of  English  liberty,  Thomas  Burnet, 
Master  of  the  Charter-House,  and  author  of  that  most  eh> 


SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


91 


quent  and  imaginative  work,  the  Telluris  Theoria  Sacra . 
Wherever  the  name  of  this  celebrated  man  occurs,  it  is 
printed  “ Ben  net,”  both  in  the  text  and  in  the  index.  This 
cannot  be  mere  negligence.  It  is  plain  that  Thomas  Burnet 
and  his  writings  were  never  heard  of  by  the  gentleman  who 
has  been  employed  to  edit  this  volume,  and  who,  not  con- 
tent with  deforming  Sir  James  Mackintosh’s  text  by  such 
blunders,  has  prefixed  to  it  a bad  Memoir,  has  appended  to 
it  a bad  Continuation,  and  has  thus  succeeded  in  expanding 
the  volume  into  one  of  the  thickest,  and  debasing  it  into 
one  of  the  worst  that  we  ever  saw.  Never  did  we  fall  in 
with  so  admirable  an  illustration  of  the  old  Greek  proverb, 
which  tells  us  that  half  is  sometimes  more  than  the  whole. 
Never  did  we  see  a case  in  which  the  increase  of  the  bulk 
was  so  evidently  a diminution  of  the  value. 

Why  such  an  artist  was  selected  to  deface  so  fine  a 
Torso,  we  cannot  pretend  to  conjecture.  We  read  that, 
when  the  Consul  Mummius,  after  the  taking  of  Corinth,  was 
preparing  to  send  to  Rome  some  works  of  the  greatest 
Grecian  sculptors,  he  told  the  packers  that  if  they  broke  his 
Venus  or  his  Apollo,  he  would  force  them  to  restore  the 
limbs  which  should  be  wanting.  A head  by  a hewer  of 
mile-stones  joined  to  a bosom  by  Praxiteles  would  not  sur- 
prise or  shock  us  more  than  this  supplement. 

The  Memoir  contains  much  that  is  worth  reading ; for 
it  contains  many  extracts  from  the  compositions  of  Sir 
James  Mackintosh.  But  when  we  pass  from  what  the 
biographer  has  done  with  his  scissors  to  what  he  has  done 
with  his  pen,  we  can  find  nothing  to  praise  in  his  work.  What- 
ever may  have  been  the  intention  with  which  he  wrote,  the 
tendency  ol  his  narrative  is  to  convey  the  impression  that 
Sir  James  Mackintosh,  from  interested  motives,  abandoned 
the  doctrines  of  the  Vindicice  Gallicce.  Had  such  charges 
appeared  in  their  natural  place,  we  should  leave  them  to 
their  natural  fate.  We  would  not  stoop  to  defend  Sir  Jam  3S 
Mackintosh  from  the  attacks  of  fourth-rate  magazines  and 
pothouse  newspapers.  But  here  his  own  fame  is  turned 
against  him.  A book  of  which  not  one  copy  would  ever 
have  been  bought  but  for  his  name  in  the  title  page  is  made 
the  vehicle  of  the  imputation.  Under  these  circumstances 
we  cannot  help  exclaiming,  in  the  words  of  one  of  the  most 
amiable  of  Homer’s  heroes, 

u NOy  tl<;  evrieiris  narpoxArJos  SetAolo 

Mvrjadcrdio’  7racru'  yap  eTTicrraro  p-etAt^o?  eivai 
Zwos  eiav  vvv  6’  av  QavaTo$  Kai  Moipa 


92  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

We  have  no  difficulty  in  admitting  that,  during  the  ten 
or  twelve  years  ’which  followed  the  appearance  of  the  Vin- 
dicice  Gallicce , the  opinions  of  Sir  James  Mackintosh  under- 
went some  change.  But  did  this  change  pass  on  him  alone  ? 
Was  it  not  common  ? Was  it  not  almost  universal  ? Was 
there  one  honest  friend  of  liberty  in  Europe  or  in  America 
whose  ardor  had  not  been  damped,  whose  faith  in  the  high 
destinies  of  mankind  had  not  been  shaken  ? Was  there  one 
observer  to  whom  the  French  Revolution,  or  revolutions  in 
general,  appeared  in  exactly  the  same  light  on  the  day  when 
the  Bastile  fell,  and  on  the  day  when  the  Girondists  were 
dragged  to  the  scaffold,  the  day  when  the  Directory  shipped 
off  their  principal  opponents  for  Guiana,  or  the  day  when 
the  Legislative  Body  was  driven  from  its  hall  at  the  point 
of  the  bayonet?  We  do  not  speak  of  light-minded  and  en- 
thusiastic people,  of  writs  like  Sheridan,  of  poets  like  Alfieri ; 
but  of  the  most  virtuous  and  intelligent  practical  statesmen, 
and  of  the  deepest,  the  calmest,  the  most  impartial  political 
speculators  of  that  time.  What  was  the  language  and  con- 
duct of  Lord  Spencer,  of  Lord  Fitzwulliam,  of  Mr.  Grattan  ? 
What  is  the  tone  of  M.  Dumont’s  Memoirs,  written  just  at 
the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century  ? What  Tory  could 
have  spoken  with  greater  disgust  and  contempt  of  the 
French  Revolution  and  its  authors  ? Nay,  this  writer,  a re- 
publican, and  the  most  upright  and  zealous  of  republicans, 
has  gone  so  far  as  to  say  that  Mr.  Burke’s  work  on  the 
Revolution  had  saved  Europe.  The  name  of  M.  Dumont 
naturally  suggests  that  of  Mr.  Bentham.  He,  we  presume, 
was  not  ratting  for  a place ; and  what  language  did  he  hold 
at  that  time?  Look  at  his  little  treatise  entitled  Sophismes 
Anarchiques.  In  that  treatise  he  says,  that  the  atrocities 
of  the  Revolution  were  the  natural  consequences  of  the  ab- 
surd principles  on  which  it  was  commenced  ; that,  while  the 
chiefs  of  the  constituent  assembly  gloried  in  the  thought 
that  they  were  pulling  dovrn  aristocracy,  they  never  saw 
that  their  doctrines  tended  to  produce  an  evil  a hundred 
times  more  formidable,  anarchy;  that  the  theory  laid  down 
in  the  Declaration  of  the  Rights  of  Man  had,  in  a great 
measure,  produced  the  crimes  of  the  Reign  of  Terror ; that 
none  but  an  eyewitness  could  imagine  the  horrors  of  a state 
of  society  in  which  comments  on  that  Declaration  were  put 
forth  by  men  with  no  food  in  their  bellies,  with  rags  on 
their  backs,  and  pikes  in  their  hands.  He  praises  the  Eng- 
lish Parliament  for  the  dislike  which  it  has  always  shown 


SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


93 

to  abstract  reasonings,  and  to  the  affirming  of  general  prin- 
ciples. In  M.  Dujnont’s  preface  to  the  Treatise  on  the 
Principles  of  Legislation,  a preface  wnttcn  under  the  eye  of 
Mr.  Bentham,  and  published  with  his  sanction,  are  the  fol- 
lowing still  more  remarkable  expressions  : “ M.  Bentham 
est  bien  loin  d’attacher  une  preference  exclusive  a aucune 
forme  de  gouvernement.  II  pense  que  la  meilleure  constitu- 
tion povj  un  peuple  est  celle  a laquelle  il  est  accoutume. 
* # =*  # Le  vice  fondainental  des  theories  sur  les  con- 

stitutions politiques,  c’est  de  commencer  par  attaquer  celles 
qui  existent,  et  d’exciter  tout  au  moins  des  inquietudes  et 
des  jalousies  de  pouvoir.  Une  telle  disposition  n’est  point 
favorable  au  perfectionnement  des  lois.  La  seule  epoque 
oh  l’on  puisse  entreprendre  avec  succes  des  grandes  reformes 
de  legislation,  est  celle  oh  les  passions  publiques  sont 
calmes,  et  oh  le  gouvernement  jouit  de  la  stabilite  la  plus 
grande.  L’objet  de  M.  Bentham,  en  cherchant  dans  le  vice 
dcs  lois  la  cause  do  la  pi  up  art  des  maux,  a ete  constamment 
d’eloigner  la  plus  grand  de  tous,  le  bouleversement  de 
Tautorite,  les  revolutions  de  propriete  et  do  jDouvoir.” 

To  so  conservative  a frame  of  mind  had  the  excesses  of 
the  French  Revolution  brought  the  most  illustrious  reform- 
ers of  that  time.  And  why  is  one  person  to  be  singled  out 
from  among  millions,  and  arraigned  before  posterity  as  a 
traitor  to  iris  opinions,  only  because  events  produced  on 
him  the  effect  which  they  produced  on  a whole  generation  ? 
People  who,  like  Mr.  Brothers  in  the  last  generation,  and 
Mr.  Percival  in  this,  have  been  favored  with  revelations 
from  heaven,  may  be  quite  independent  of  the  vulgar 
sources  of  knowledge.  But  such  poor  creatures  as  Mackin- 
tosh, Dumont,  and  Bentham,  had  nothing  but  observation 
and  reason  to  guide  them ; and  they  obeyed  the  guidance 
of  observation  and  of  reason.  How  is  it  in  physics  ? A trav- 
eller falls  in  with  a berry  which  he  has  never  before  seen. 
He  tastes  it,  and  finds  it  sweet  and  refreshing.  He  praises 
it,  and  resolves  to  introduce  it  into  his  own  country.  But 
in  a few  minutes  he  is  taken  violently  sick;  he  is  convulsed; 
lie  is  at  the  point  of  death.  He  of  course  changes  his 
opinion,  pronounces  this  delicious  food  a poison,  blames  his 
own  folly  in  tasting  it,  and  cautions  his  friends  against  it. 
After  a long  and  violent  struggle  he  recovers,  and  finds 
himself  much  exhausted  by  his  sufferings,  but  free  from 
some  chronic  complaints  which  had  been  the  torment  of  his 
life.  He  then  changes  his  opinion  again,  and  pronounces 


94  macaulay's  miscellaneous  writings. 

this  fruit  a very  powerful  remedy,  which  ought  to  be  em- 
ployed only  in  extreme  cases  and  with  great  caution,  but 
which  ought  not  to  be  absolutely  excluded  from  the  Phar- 
macopoeia. And  would  it  not  be  the  height  of  absurdity  to 
call  such  a man  fickle  and  inconsistent,  because  he  had  re- 
peatedly altered  his  judgment  ? If  he  had  not  altered  his 
judgment,  would  he  hate  been  a rational  being?  It  was 
exactly  the  same  with  the  French  Revolution.  That  event 
was  a new  phenomenon  in  politics.  Nothing  that  had  gone 
before  enabled  any  person  to  judge  with  certainty  of  the 
course  which  affairs  might  take.  At  first  the  effect  was  the 
reform  of  great  abuses ; and  honest  men  rejoiced.  Then 
came  commotion,  proscription,  confiscation,  bankruptcy,  the 
assignats,  the  maximum,  civil  war,  foreign  war,  revolution- 
ary tribunals,  guillotinades,  noyades,  fusillades.  Yet  a little 
while,  and  a military  despotism  rose  out  of  the  confusion, 
and  menaced  the  independence  of  every  State  in  Europe. 
And  yet  again  a little  while,  and  the  old  dynasty  returned, 
followed  by  a train  of  immigrants  eager  to  restore  the  old 
abuses.  We  have  now,  we  think,  the  whole  before  us.  We 
should  therefore  be  justly  accused  of  levity  or  insincerity  if 
our  language  concerning  those  events  were  constantly 
changing.  It  is  our  deliberate  opinion  that  the  French 
Revolution,  in  spite  of  all  its  crimes  and  follies,  was  a great 
blessing  to  mankind.  But  it  was  not  only  natural,  but  in- 
evitable, that  those  who  had  only  seen  the  first  act  should 
be  ignorant  of  the  catastrophe,  and  should  be  alternately 
Hated  and  depressed  as  the  plot  went  on  disclosing  itself  to 
them.  A man  who  had  held  exactly  the  same  opinion  about 
the  Revolution  in  1789,  in  1794,  in  1804,  in  1814,  and  in 
1834,  would  have  been  either  a divinely  inspired  prophet, 
or  an  obstinate  fool.  Mackintosh  was  neither.  He  was 
simply  a wise  and  good  man ; and  the  change  which  passed 
on  his  mind  was  a change  which  passed  on  the  mind  of  al- 
most every  wise  and  good  man  in  Europe.  In  fact,  few  of 
his  contemporaries  changed  so  little.  The  rare  moderation 
and  calmness  of  his  temper  preserved  him  alike  from  ex- 
travagant elation  and  from  extravagant  despondency.  He 
was  never  a Jacobin.  He  was  never  an  Anti  jacobin.  His 
mind  oscillated  undoubtedly  ; but  the  extreme  points  of  the 
oscillation  were  not  very  remote.  Herein  he  differed  greatly 
from  some  persons  of  distinguished  talents  who  entered  into 
life  at  nearly  the  same  time  with  him.  Such  persons  we 
have  seen  rushing  from  one  wild  extreme  to  another,  out- 


SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


95 


Paining  Paine,  out-Castlereagliing  Castlereagh,  Pantisocra- 
tists,  Ultra-Tories,  heretics,  persecutors,  breaking  the  old 
laws  against  sedition,  calling  for  new  and  sharper  laws 
against  sedition,  writing  democratic  dramas,  writing  Lau- 
reate odes,  panegyrizing  Marten,  panegyrizing  Laud,  con- 
sistent in  nothing  but  an  intolerance  which  in  any  person 
would  be  censurable,  but  which  is  altogether  unpardonable 
in  men  wdio,  by  their  own  confession,  have  had  such  ample 
experience  of  their  own  fallibility.  We  readily  concede  to 
some  of  these  persons  the  praise  of  eloquence  and  poetical 
invention ; nor  are  we  by  any  means  disposed,  even  where 
they  have  been  gainers  by  their  conversion,  to  question 
their  sincerity.  It  would  be  most  uncandid  to  attribute  to 
sordid  motives  actions  which  admit  of  a less  discreditable 
explanation.  We  think  that  the  conduct  of  these  persons 
has  been  precisely  what  was  to  be  expected  from  men  who 
were  gifted  with  strong  imagination  and  quick  sensibility, 
but  who  were  neither  accurate  observers  nor  logical  reason- 
ers.  It  was  natural  that  such  men  should  see  in  the  victory 
of  the  third  estate  of  France  the  dawn  of  a new  Saturnian 
age.  It  was  natural  that  the  rage  of  their  disappointment 
should  be  proportioned  to  the  extravagance  of  their  hopes. 
Though  the  direction  of  their  passions  was  altered,  the  vio- 
lence of  those  passions  was  the  same.  The  force  of  the  re- 
bound was  proportioned  to  the  force  of  the  original  impulse. 
The  pendulum  swung  furiously  to  the  left,  because  it  had 
been  drawn  too  far  to  the  right. 

We  own  that  nothing  gives  us  so  high  an  idea  of  the 
judgment  and  temper  of  Sir  James  Mackintosh  as  the  man- 
ner in  which  he  shaped  his  course  through  those  times.  Ex- 
posed successively  to  two  opposite  infections,  he  took  both 
in  their  very  mildest  form.  The  constitution  of  his  mind 
was  such  that  neither  of  the  diseases  which  wrought  such 
havoc  all  round  him  could  in  any  serious  degree,  or  for  any 
great  length  of  time,  derange  his  intellectual  health.  He, 
like  every  honest  and  enlightened  man  in  Europe,  saw  with 
delight  the  great  awakening  of  the  French  nation.  Yet  he 
never,  in  the  season  of  his  warmest  enthusiasm,  proclaimed 
doctrines  inconsistent  with  the  safety  of  property  and  the 
just  authority  of  governments.  He,  like  almost  every  other 
honest  and  enlightened  man,  was  discouraged  and  perplexed 
by  the  terrible  events  which  followed.  Yet  he  never  in  the 
most  gloomy  times  abandoned  the  cause  of  peace,  of  liberty, 
and  of  toleration.  In  that  great  convulsion  which  overset 


96 


MACAULAY  S MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


almost  every  other  understanding,  he  was  indeed  so  much 
shaken  that  he  leaned  sometimes  in  one  direction  and  some- 
times in  the  other ; but  he  never  lost  his  balance.  The 
opinions  in  which  he  at  last  reposed,  and  to  which,  in  spite 
of  strong  temptations,  he  adhered  with  a firm,  a disinter- 
ested, an  ill-requited  fidelity,  were  a just  mean  between 
those  which  he  had  defended  with  youthful  ardor  and 
with  more  than  manly  prowess  against  Mr.  Burke,  and 
those  to  which  he  had  inclined  during  the  darkest  and 
saddest  years  in  the  history  of  modern  Europe.  We  are 
much  mistaken  if  this  be  the  picture  either  of  a weak  or  of 
a dishonest  mind. 

What  the  political  opinions  of  Sir  James  Mackintosh 
were  in  his  later  years  is  written  in  the  annals  of  his  coun- 
try. Those  annals  will  sufficiently  refute  what  the  Editor 
has  ventured  to  assert  in  the  very  advertisement  to  this 
work.  “Sir  James  Mackintosh,”  says  he,  “was  avowedly 
and  emphatically  a Whig  of  the  Revolution : and  since  the 
agitation  of  religious  liberty  and  parliamentary  reform  be- 
came a national  movement,  the  great  transaction  of  168§  has 
been  more  dispassionately,  more  correctly,  and  less  highly 
estimated.”  If  these  words  mean  anything,  they  must 
mean  the  opinions  of  Sir  James  Mackintosh  concerning 
religious  liberty  and  parliamentary  reform  went  no  further 
than  those  of  the  authors  of  the  Revolution  ; in  other  words, 
that  Sir  James  Mackintosh  opposed  Catholic  Emancipation, 
and  approved  of  the  old  constitution  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. The  allegation  is  confuted  by  twenty  volumes  of 
Parliamentary  Debates,  nay  by  innumerable  passages  in  the 
very  Fragment  which  this  writer  has  defaced.  We  will 
venture  to  say  that  Sir  James  Mackintosh  often  did  more 
for  religious  liberty  and  for  parliamentary  reform  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  than  most  of  those  zealots  who  are  in 
the  habit  of  depreciating  him,  have  done  or  will  do  in  the 
whole  course  of  their  lives. 

Nothing  in  the  Memoir,  or  in  the  Continuation  of  the 
History,  has  struck  us  so  much  as  the  contempt  with  which 
the  writer  thinks  fit  to  speak  of  all  things  that  were  done 
before  the  coming  in  of  the  very  last  fashions  in  politics. 
We  think  that  we  have  sometimes  observed  a leaning  to- 
wards the  same  fault  in  writers  of  a much  higher  order  of 
intellect.  We  will  therefore  take  this  opportunity  of  mak- 
ing a few  remarks  on  an  error  which  is,  we  fear,  becoming 
common,  and  which  appears  to  us  not  only  absurd,  but  as 


era  JAMES  MACKINTOSH, 


97 


pernicious  as  almost  any  error  concerning  the  transactions 
of  a past  age  can  possibly  be. 

We  shall  not,  we  hope,  be  suspected  of  a bigoted  attach- 
ment to  the  doctrines  and  practices  of  past  generations. 
Our  creed  is  that  the  science  of  government  is  an  experi- 
mental science,  and  that,  like  all  other  experimental  sciences, 
it  is  generally  in  a state  of  progression.  No  man  is  so 
obstinate  an  admirer  of  the  old  times  as  to  deny  that 
medicine,  surgery,  botany,  chemistry,  engineering,  naviga- 
tion, are  better  understood  now  than  in  any  former  age. 
We  conceive  that  it  is  the  same  with  political  science.  Like 
those  physical  sciences  which  we  have  mentioned,  it  has 
always  been  working  itself  clearer  and  clearer,  and  deposit- 
ing impurity  after  impurity.  There  was  a time  when  the 
most  powerful  of  human  intellects  were  deluded  by  the 
gibberish  of  the  astrologer  and  the  alchemist;  and  just  so 
there  was  a time  when  the  most  enlightened  and  virtuous 
statesman  thought  it  the  first  duty  of  a government  to  per- 
secute heretics,  to  found  monasteries,  to  make  war  on  Sara- 
cens. But  time  advances ; facts  accumulate ; doubts  arise. 
Faint  glimpses  of  truth  begin  to  appear,  and  shine  more  and 
more  unto  the  perfect  day.  The  highest  intellects,  like  the 
tops  of  mountains,  are  the  first  to  catch  and  reflect  the  dawn. 
They  are  bright,  while  the  level  below  is  still  in  darkness. 
But  soon  the  light,  which  at  first  illuminated  only  the  lofti- 
est eminences,  descends  on  the  plain  and  penetrates  to  the 
deepest  valley.  First  come  hints,  then  fragments  of  systems, 
then  defective  systems,  then  complete  and  harmonious  sys- 
tems. The  sound  opinion,  held  for  a time  by  one  bold 
speculator,  becomes  the  opinion  of  a small  minority,  of  a 
strong  minority,  of  a majority  of  mankind.  Tims  the  great 
progress  goes  on,  till  schoolboys  laugh  at  the  jargon  which 
imposed  on  Bacon,  till  country  rectors  condemn  the  illiber- 
ality  and  intolerance  of  Sir  Thomas  More. 

Seeing  these  things,  seeing  that,  by  the  confession  of  the 
most  obstinate  enemies  of  innovation,  our  race  has  hitherto 
been  almost  constantly  advancing  in  knowledge,  and  net 
seeing  any  reason  to  believe  that,  precisely  at  the  point  cf 
time  at  which  we  came  into  the  world,  a change  took  place 
in  the  faculties  of  the  human  mind,  or  in  the  mode  of  dis- 
covering truth,  we  are  reformers  ; wc  are  on  the  side  of 
progress.  From  the  great  advances  which  European  soci- 
ety has  made,  during  the  last  four  centuries,  in  every  species 
of  knowledge,  we  infer,  not  that  there  is  no  more  room  for 
Vox,  IL—7 


98  MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

improvement,  but  that,  in  every  science  which  deserves  the 
name,  immense  improvements  may  be  confidently  expected. 

But  the  very  considerations  which  lead  us  to  look  for- 
ward with  sanguine  hope  to  the  future  prevent  us  from 
looking  back  with  contempt  on'  the  past.  We  do  not  flatter 
ourselves  with  the  notion  that  we  have  attained  perfection, 
and  that  no  more  truth  remains  to  be  found.  We  believe 
that  we  are  wiser  than  our  ancestors.  We  believe,  also, 
that  our  posterity  will  be  wiser  than  we.  It  would  be  gross 
injustice  in  our  grandchildren  to  talk  of  us  with  contempt, 
merely  because  they  may  have  surpassed  us  ; to  call  Watt  a 
fool,  because  mechanical  powers  may  be  discovered  which 
may  supersede  the  use  of  steam ; to  deride  the  efforts  which 
have  been  made  in  our  time  to  improve  the  discipline  of 
prisons,  and  to  enlighten  the  minds  of  the  poor,  because 
future  philanthropists  may  devise  better  places  of  confine- 
ment than  Mr.  Bentham’s  Panopticon,  and  better  places  of 
education  than  Mr.  Lancaster’s  Schools.  As  we  would 
have  our  descendants  judge  us,  so  ought  we  to  judge  our 
fathers.  In  order  to  form  a correct  estimate  of  their  merits, 
we  ought  to  place  ourselves  in  their  situation,  to  put  out  of 
our  minds,  for  a time,  all  that  knowledge  which  they,  how- 
ever eager  in  the  pursuit  of  truth,  could  not  have,  and 
which  we,  however  negligent  we  may  have  been,  could  not 
help  having.  It  was  not  merely  difficult,  but  absolutely  im- 
possible, for  the  best  and  greatest  of  men,  two  hundred 
years  ago,  to  be  what  a very  commonplace  person  in  our 
days  may  easily  be,  and  indeed  must  necessarily  be.  But  it 
is  too  much  that  the  benefactors  of  mankind,  after  having 
been  reviled  by  the  dunces  of  their  own  generation  for  going 
too  far,  should  be  reviled  by  the  dunces  of  the  next  genera- 
tion for  not  going  far  enough. 

The  truth  lies  between  two  absurd  extremes.  On  one 
side  is  the  bigot  who  pleads  the  wisdom  of  our  ancestors  as 
a reason  for  not  doing  what  they  in  our  place  would  be  the 
first  to  do  ; who  opposes  the  Reform  Bill  because  Lord 
Somers  did  not  see  the  necessity  of  Parliamentary  Reform ; 
who  would  have  opposed  the  Revolution  because  Ridley 
and  Cranmer  urofessed  boundless  submission  to  the  royal 
prerogative  ; and  who  would  have  opposed  the  Reformation 
because  the  Fitzwalters  and  Mareschals,  whose  seals  are  set 
to  the  Great  Charter,  were  devoted  adherents  to  the  Church 
of  Rome.  On  the  other  side  is  the  sciolist  who  speaks  with 
scorn  of  the  Great  Charter,  because  it  did  not  reform  the 


SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


99 


Church ; of  the  Reformation,  because  it  did  not  limit  the 
prerogative ; and  of  the  Revolution,  because  it  did  not  pm 
rify  the  House  of  Commons.  The  former  of  these  errors  we 
have  often  combated,  and  shall  always  be  ready  to  combat. 
The  latter,  though  rapidly  spreading,  has  not,  we  think,  yeu 
come  under  our  notice.  The  former  error  bears  directly 
on  practical  questions,  and  obstructs  useful  reforms.  It 
may,  therefore,  seem  to  be,  and  probably  is,  the  more  mis- 
chievous of  the  two.  But  the  latter  is  equally  absurd ; it  is 
at  least  equally  symptomatic  of  a shallow  understanding  and 
an  unamiable  temper  : and,  if  it  should  ever  become  general, 
it  will,  we  are  satisfied,  produce  very  prejudicial  effects.  Its 
tendency  is  to  deprive  the  benefactors  of  mankind  of  their 
honest  fame,  and  to  put  the  best  and  the  worst  men  of  past 
times  on  the  same  level.  The  author  of  a great  reformation 
is  almost  always  unpopular  in  his  own  age.  He  generally 
passes  his  life  in  disquiet  and  danger.  It  is  therefore  for  the 
interest  of  the  human  race  that  the  memory  of  such  men 
should  be  had  in  reverence,  and  that  they  should  be  sup- 
ported against  the  scorn  and  hatred  of  their  contemporaries 
by  the  hope  of  leaving  a great  and  imperishable  name.  To 
go  on  the  forlorn  hope  of  truth  is  a service  of  peril.  Who 
will  undertake  it,  if  it  be  not  also  a service  of  honor?  It  is 
easy  enough,  after  the  ramparts  are  carried,  to  find  men  to 
plant  the  flag  on  the  highest  tower.  The  difficulty  is  to  find 
men  who  are  ready  to  go  first  into  the  breach  ; and  it  would 
be  bad  policy  indeed  to  insult  their  remains  because  they 
fell  in  the  breach,  and  did  not  live  to  penetrate  to  the  citadel. 

Now  here  we  have  a book  which  is  by  no  means  a favor- 
able specimen  of  the  English  literature  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  a book  indicating  neither  extensive  knowledge  nor 
great  powers  of  reasoning.  And,  if  we  were  to  judge  by  the 
pity  with  which  the  writer  speaks  of  the  great  statesmen 
and  philosophers  of  a former  age,  we  should  guess  that  he 
was  the  author  of  the  most  original  and  important  inven- 
tions in  political  science.  Yet  not  so : for  men  who  are  able 
to  make  discoveries  are  generally  disposed  to  make  allow- 
ances. Men  who  are  eagerly  pressing  forward  in  pursuit  of 
truth  are  grateful  to  every  one  who  has  cleared  an  inch  of 
the  way  for  them.  It  is,  for  the  most  part,  the  man  who  has 
just  capacity  enough  to  pick  up  and  repeat  the  common- 
places which  are  fashionable  in  his  own  time  who  looks  with 
disdain  on  the  very  intellects  to  which  it  is  owing  that  those 
commonplaces  are  not  still  considered  as  startling  paradoxes 


100 


MACAULAYS  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


or  damnalle  heresies.  This  writer  is  just  the  man  who,  il 
he  had  lived  in  the  seventeenth  century,  would  have  de- 
voutly believed  that  the  Papists  burned  London,  who  would 
have  swallowed  the  whole  of  Oates’s  story  about  the  forty 
thousand  soldiers,  disguised  as  pilgrims,  who  were  to  meet 
in  Gallicia,  and  sail  thence  to  invade  England,  who  would 
have  carried  a Protestant  flail  under  his  coat,  and  who  would 
have  been  angry  if  the  story  of  the  warming-pan  had  been 
questioned.  It  is  quite  natural  that  such  a man  should 
speak  with  contempt  of  the  great  reformers  of  that  time, 
because  they  did  not  know  some  things  which  he  never 
would  have  known  but  for  the  salutory  effects  of  their  exer- 
tions. The  men  to  whom  we  owe  it  that  we  have  a House 
of  Commons  are  sneered  at  because  they  did  not  suffer  the 
debates  of  the  House  to  be  published.  The  authors  of  the 
Toleration  Act  are  treated  as  bigots,  because  they  did  not 
go  the  whole  length  of  Catholic  Emancipation.  Just  so  we 
have  heard  a baby,  mounted  on  the  shoulders  of  its  father, 
cry  out,  “ How  much  taller  I am  than  Papa ! ” 

This  gentleman  can  never  want  matter  for  pride,  if  he 
finds  it  so  easily.  He  may  boast  of  an  indisputable  superi- 
ority to  all  the  greatest  men  of  all  past  ages.  He  can  read 
and  write  : Homer  probably  did  not  know  a letter.  He  has 
been  taught  that  the  earth  goes  round  the  sun  : Archimedes 
held  that  the  sun  went  round  the  earth.  He  is  aware  that 
there  is  a place  called  Hew  Holland : Columbus  and  Gama 
went  to  their  graves  in  ignorance  of  the  fact.  He  has  heard 
of  the  Georgium  Sidus:  Newton  was  ignorant  of  the  exist- 
ence of  such  a planet.  He  is  acquainted  with  the  use  of 
gunpowder : Hannibal  and  Caesar  won  their  victories  with 
sword  and  spear.  We  submit,  however,  that  this  is  not  the 
way  in  which  men  are  to  be  estimated.  We  submit  that  a 
wooden  spoon  of  our  day  would  not  be  jn stifled  in  calling 
Galileo  and  Napier  blockheads,  because  they  never  heard  of 
the  differential  calculus.  We  submit  that  Caxton’s  press 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  rude  as  it  is,  ought  to  be  looked  at 
with  quite  as  much  respect  as  the  best  constructed  machin- 
ery that  ever,  in  our  time,  impressed  the  clearest  type  on 
the  finest  paper.  Sydenham  first  discovered  that  the  cool 
regimen  succeeded  best  in  cases  of  small-pox.  By  this  dis- 
covery he  saved  the  lives  of  hundreds  of  thousands;  and  we 
venerate  his  memory  for  it,  though  he  never  heard  of  inoc- 
ulation. Lady  Mary  Montague  brought  inoculation  into 
use;  and  we  respect  her  for  it,  though  she  never  heard  of 


SIB  JAMES  MACKINTOSH, 


101 


vaccination.  Jenner  introduced  vaccination ; we  admire 
him  for  it,  and  we  shall  continue  to  admire  him  for  it,  al- 
though some  still  safer  and  more  agreeable  preservative 
should  be  discovered.  It  is  thus  that  we  ought  to  judge  of 
the  events  and  the  men  of  other  times.  They  were  behind  us. 
It  could  not  be  otherwise.  But  the  question  with  respect 
to  them  is  not  where  they  were,  but  which  way  they  were 
going.  Were  their  faces  set  in  the  right  or  in  the  wrong  di- 
rection ? Were  they  in  the  front  or  in  the  rear  of  their  gener- 
ation? Did  they  exert  themselves  to  help  onward  the  great 
movement  of  the  human  race,  or  to  stop  it?  This  is  not 
charity,  but  simple  justice  and  common  sense.  It  is  the 
fundamental  law  of  the  world  in  which  we  live  that  truth 
shall  grow,  first  the  blade,  then  the  ear,  after  that  the  full 
corn  in  the  ear.  A person  who  complains  of  the  men  of 
1688  for  not  having  been  men  of  1835  might  just  as  well 
complain  of  a projectile  for  describing  a parabola,  or  of 
quicksilver  for  being  heavier  than  water. 

Undoubtedly  we  ought  to  look  at  ancient  transactions 
by  the  light  of  modern  knowledge.  Undoubtedly  it  is 
among  the  first  duties  of  a historian  to  point  out  the  faults 
of  the  eminent  men  of  former  generations.  There  are  no 
errors  which  are  so  likely  to  be  drawn  into  precedent,  and 
therefore  none  which  it  is  so  necessary  to  expose,  as  the 
errors  of  persons  who  have  a just  title  to  the  gratitude  and 
admiration  of  posterity.  In  politics,  as  in  religion,  there  are 
devotees  who  show  their  reverence  for  a departed  saint  by 
converting  his  tomb  into  a sanctuary  for  crime.  Receptacles 
of  wickedness  are  suffered  to  remain  undisturbed  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  church  which  glories  in  the  relics  of: 
some  martyred  apostle.  Because  he  was  merciful,  his  bones 
give  security  to  assassins.  Because  he  was  chaste,  the  pre- 
cinct of  his  temple  is  filled  with  licensed  stews.  Privileges 
of  an  equally  absurd  kind  have  been  set  up  against  the  juris* 
diction  of  political  philosophy.  Yile  abuses  cluster  thick 
round  every  glorious  event,  round  every  venerable  name ; 
and  this  evil  assuredly  calls  for  vigorous  measures  of  liter* 
ary  police.  But  the  proper  course  is  to  abate  the  nuisance 
without  defacing  the  shrine,  to  drive  out  the  gangs  of  thieves 
and  prostitutes  without  doing  foul  and  cowardly  wrong  to 
the  ashes  of  the  illustrious  dead. 

* In  this  respect  two  historians  of  our  own  time  may  be 

£roposed  as  models,  Sir  James  Mackintosh  and  Mr.  Mill 
differing  in  most  things,  in  this  they  closely  resemble  each 


102  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

other.  Sir  James  is  lenient.  Mr.  Mill  is  severe.  But 
neither  of  them  ever  omits,  in  the  apportioning  of  praise 
and  of  censure,  to  make  ample  allowance  for  the  state  of 
political  science  and  political  morality  in  former  ages.  In 
the  work  before  us,  Sir  James  Mackintosh  speaks  with  just 
respect  of  the  Whigs  of  the  Revolution,  while  he  never  fails 
to  condemn  the  conduct  of  that  party  towards  the  members 
of  the  Church  of  Rome.  His  doctrines  are  the  liberal  and 
benevolent  doctrines  of  the  nineteenth  century.  But  he 
never  forgets  that  the  men  whom  he  is  describing  were  men 
of  the  seventeenth  century. 

From  Mr.  Mill  this  indulgence,  or  to  speak  inore  prop- 
erly, this  justice,  was  less  to  be  expected.  That  gentleman, 
in  some  of  his  works,  appears  to  consider  politics  not  as  an 
experimental,  and  therefore  a progressive  science,  but  as  a 
science  of  which  all  the  difficulties  may  be  resolved  by  short 
synthetical  arguments  drawn  from  truths  of  the  most  vulgar 
notoriety.  Were  this  opinion  well  founded,  the  people  of 
one  generation  would  have  little  or  no  advantage  over  those 
of  another  generation.  But  though  Mr.  Mill,  in  some  of  his 
Essays,  has  been  thus  misled,  as  we  conceive,  by  a fondness 
for  neat  and  precise  forms  of  demonstration,  it  would  be 
gross  injustice  not  to  admit  that,  in  his  History,  he  has  em- 
ployed a very  different  method  of  investigation  with  emi- 
nent ability  and  success.  We  know  no  writer  who  takes  so 
much  pleasure  in  the  truly  useful,  noble,  and  philosophical 
employment  of  tracing  the  progress  of  sound  opinions  from 
their  embryo  state  to  their  full  maturity.  He  eagerly  culls 
from  old  despatches  and  minutes  every  expression  in  which 
he  can  discern  the  imperfect  germ  of  any  great  truth  which 
has  since  been  fully  developed.  He  never  fails  to  bestow 
praise  on  those  who,  though  far  from  coming  up  to  his  stan- 
dard of  perfection,  yet  rose  in  a small  degree  over  the  com- 
mon level  of  their  contemporaries.  It  is  thus  that  the  ann#ls 
of  past  times  ought  to  be  written.  It  is  thus,  especially, 
that  the  annals  of  our  own  country  ought  to  be  written. 

The  history  of  England  is  emphatically  the  history  of 
progress.  It  is  the  history  of  a constant  movement  of  the 
public  mind,  of  a constant  change  in  the  institutions  of  a 
great  society.  We  see  that  society,  at  the  beginning  of  the 
twelfth  century,  in  a state  more  miserable  than  the  state  in 
which  the  most  degraded  nations  of  the  East  now  are.  We 
see  it  subjected  to  the  tyranny  of  a handful  of  armed  foreign- 
ers. We  see  a strong  distinction  of  caste  separating  the 


SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


108 


victorious  Norman  from  the  vanquished  Saxon.  We  see  tho 
great  body  of  the  population  in  a state  of  personal  slavery. 
We  see  the  most  debasing  and  cruel  superstition  exercising 
boundless  domain  over  the  most  elevated  and  benevolent 
minds.  We  see  the  multitude  sunk  in  brutal  ignorance, 
and  the  studious  few  engaged  in  acquiring  what  did  not 
deserve  the  name  of  knowledge.  In  the  course  of  seven 
centuries  the  wretched  and  degraded  race  have  become  the 
greatest  and  most  highly  civilized  people  that  ever  the  world 
saw,  have  spread  their  dominion  over  every  quarter  of  the 
globe,  have  scattered  the  seeds  of  mighty  empires  and  repub- 
lics over  vast  continents  of  which  no  dim  intimation  had 
ever  reached  Ptolemy  or  Strabo,  have  created  a maritime 
power  which  would  annihilate  in  a quarter  of  an  hour  the 
navies  of  Tyre,  Athens,  Carthage,  Venice,  and  Genoa  to- 
gether, have  carried  the  science  of  healing,  the  means  of 
locomotion  and  correspondence,  every  mechanical  art,  every 
manufacture,  everything  that  promotes  the  convenience  of 
life,  to  a perfection  which  our  ancestors  would  have  thought 
magical,  have  produced  a literature  which  may  boast  of 
works  not  inferior  to  the  noblest  which  Greece  has  bequeathed 
to  us,  have  discovered  the  laws  which  regulate  the  motions 
of  the  heavenly  bodies,  have  speculated  with  exquisite  sub- 
tility on  the  operations  of  the  human  mind,  have  been  the 
acknowledged  leaders  of  the  human  race  in  the  career  of 
political  improvement.  The  history  of  England  is  the  his- 
tory of  this  great  change  in  the  moral,  intellectual, - and 
physical  state  of  the  inhabitants  of  our  own  island.  There 
is  much  amusing  and  instructive  episodical  matter ; but 
this  is  the  main  action.  To  us,  we  will  own,  nothing  is  so 
interesting  and  delightful  as  to  contemplate  the  steps  by 
which  the  England  of  Domesday  Book,  the  England  of 
the  Curfew  and  the  Forest  Laws,  the  England  of  crusaders, 
monks,  schoolmen,  astrologers,  serfs,  outlaws,  became  the 
England  which  we  know  and  love,  the  classic  ground  of 
liberty  and  philosophy,  the  school  of  all  knowledge,  tho 
mart  of  all  trade.  The  Charter  of  Henry  Beauclerk,  tho 
Great  Charter,  the  first  assembling  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, the  extinction  of  personal  slavery,  the  separation  from 
the  See  of  Rome,  the  Petition  of  Right,  the  Habeas  Corpus 
Act,  the  Revolution  and  establishment  of  the  liberty  of  unli- 
censed printing,  the  abolition  of  religious  disabilities,  the 
reform  of  the  representative  system,  all  these  seem  to  us 
to  be  the  successive  stages  of  one  great  revolution ; nor  can 


104  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

we  fully  comprehend  anyone  of  these  memorable  events  unless 
we  look  at  it  in  connection  with  those  which  preceded,  and 
with  those  which  followed  it.  Each  of  those  great  and  ever 
memorable  struggles,  Saxon  against  Norman,  Villein  against 
Lord,  Protestant  against  Papist,  Roundhead  against  Cava- 
lier, Dissenter  against  Churchman,  Manchester  against  Old 
Sarum,  was,  in  its  own  order  and  season,  a struggle,  on  the 
result  of  which  wrere  staked  the  dearest  interests  of  the 
human  race  ; and  every  man  wUo,  in  the  contest  which,  in 
his  time,  divided  our  country,  distinguished  himself  on  the 
right  side,  is  entitled  to  our  gratitude  and  respect. 

Whatever  the  editor  of  this  book  may  think,  those  per- 
sons who  estimate  most  correctly  the  value  of  the  improve* 
ments  which  have  recently  been  made  in  our  institutions, 
are  precisely  the  persons  wdio  are  least  disposed  to  speak 
slightingly  of  what  was  done  in  1688.  Such  men  consider 
the  Revolution  as  a reform,  imperfect  indeed,  but  still  most 
beneficial  to  the  English  people  and  to  the  human  race,  as  a 
reform  which  has  been  the  fruitful  parent  of  reforms,  as  a 
reform,  the  happy  effects  of  which  are  at  this  moment  felt, 
not  only  throughout  our  own  country,  but  in  half  the 
monarchies  of  Europe,  and  in  the  depths  of  the  forests  of 
Ohio.  We  shall  be  pardoned,  we  hope,  if  we  call  the  atten- 
tion of  our  readers  to  the  causes  and  to  the  consequences  of 
that  great  event. 

We  said  that  the  history  of  England  is  the  history  of 
progress ; and,  when  we  take  a comprehensive  view  of  it, 
it  is  so.  Rut,  when  examined  in  small  separate  portions, 
it  may  with  more  propriety  be  called  a history  of  actions 
and  re-actions.  We  have  often  thought  that  the  motion  of 
the  public  mind  in  our  country  resembles  that  of  the  sea 
when  the  tide  is  rising.  Each  successive  wave  rushes  for- 
ward, breaks,  and  rolls  back  ; but  the  great  flood  is  steadily 
coming  in.  A person  who  looked  on  the  waters  only  for  a 
moment  might  fancy  that  they  were  retiring.  A person 
who  looked  on  them  only  for  five  minutes  might  fancy  that 
they  were  rushing  capriciously  to  and  fro.  But  wrhen  he 
keeps  his  eye  on  them  for  a quarter  of  an  hour,  and  sees  one 
seamark  disappear  after  another,  it  is  impossible  for  him 
to  doubt  the  general  direction  in  which  the  ocean  is  moved. 
Just  such  has  been  the  course  of  events  in  England.  In  the 
history  of  the  national  mind,  which  is,  in  truth,  the  history 
of  the  nation,  we  must  carefully  distinguish  between  that 
recoil  which  regularly  follows  every  advance  and  a gresrt 


SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH.  105 

general  ebb.  If  we  take  short  intervals,  if  we  compare  1640 
and  1660,  1680  and  1685,  1708  and  1712,  1782  and  1794. 
we  find  a retrogression.  But  if  we  take  centuries,  if,  for 
example,  we  compare  1794  with  1660  or  with  1685,  we  can- 
not doubt  in  which  direction  society  is  proceeding. 

The  interval  which  elapsed  between  the  Restoration  and 
the  Revolution  naturally  divides  itself  into  three  periods 
The  first  extends  from  1660  to  1678,  the  second  from  1678 
to  1681,  the  third  from  1681  to  1688. 

In  1660  the  whole  nation  was  mad  w ith  loyal  excitement, 
ff  we  had  to  choose  a lot  from  among  all  the  multitude  of 
those  which  men  have  drawn  since  the  beginning  of  the 
world,  we  would  select  that  of  Charles  the  Second  on  the 
day  of  his  return.  He  was  in  a situation  in  which  the  dic- 
tates of  ambition  coincided  with  those  of  benevolence,  in 
which  it  was  easier  to  be  virtuous  than  to  be  wicked,  to  be 
loved  than  to  be  hated,  to  earn  pure  and  imperishable 
glory  than  to  become  infamous.  For  once  the  road  of 
goodness  was  a smooth  descent.  He  had  done  nothing  to 
merit  the  affection  of  his  people.  But  they  had  paid  him 
in  advance  without  measure.  Elizabeth,  after  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  Armada,  or  after  the  abolition  of  monopolies, 
had  not  excited  a thousandth  part  of  the  enthusiasm  with 
which  the  young  exile  was  welcomed  home.  He  was  not, 
like  Lewis  the  Eighteenth,  imposed  on  his  subjects  by 
foreign  conquerors;  nor  did  he,  like  Lewis  the  Eighteenth, 
come  back  to  a country  which  had  undergone  a complete 
change.  The  House  of  Bourbon  was  placed  in  Paris  as  a 
trophy  of  the  victory  of  the  European  confederation.  The 
return  of  the  ancient  princes  was  inseparably  associated  in 
the  public  mind  with  the  cession  of  extensive  provinces, 
with  the  payment  of  an  immense  tribute,  with  the  devasta- 
tion of  flourishing  departments,  with  the  occupation  of  the 
kingdom  by  hostile  armies,  with  the  emptiness  of  those 
niches  in  which  the  gods  of  Athens  and  Rome  had  been  the 
objects  of  a new  idolatry,  with  the  nakedness  of  those  walls 
on  which  the  Transfiguration  had  shone  with  light  as  glori- 
ous as  that  which  overhung  Mount  Tabor.  They  came 
back  to  a land  in  which  they  could  recognize  nothing.  The 
seven  sleepers  of  the  legion,  who  closed  their  eyes  when  the 
Pagans  were  persecuting  the  Christians,  and  woke  when 
the  Christians  were  persecuting  each  other,  did  not  find 
themselves  in  a world  more  completely  new  to  them, 
Twenty  years  had  done  the  work  of  twenty  generations , 


106 


MACAULAY  S MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Events  had  come  thick.  Men  had  lived  fast.  The  old  in- 
stitutions and  the  old  feelings  had  been  torn  up  by  the 
roots.  There  was  a new  Church  founded  and  endowed  by 
the  usurper ; a new  nobility  whose  titles  were  taken  from 
fields  of  battle,  disastrous  to  the  ancient  line  ; a new  chivalry 
whose  crosses  had  been  won  by  exploits  which  had  seemed 
likely  to  make  the  banishment  of  the  emigrants  perpetual. 
A new  code  was  administered  by  a new  magistracy.  A new 
body  of  proprietors  held  the  soil  by  a new  tenure.  The 
most  ancient  local  distinctions  had  been  effaced.  The  most 
familiar  names  had  become  obsolete.  There  was  no  longer 
a Normandy  or  a Burgundy,  a Brittany  or  aGuienne.  The 
France  of  Lewis  the  Sixteenth  had  passed  away  as  com- 
pletely as  one  of  the  Preadamite  words.  Its  fossil  remains 
might  now  and  then  excite  curiosity.  But  it  was  as  impos- 
sible to  put  life  into  the  old  institutions  as  to  animate  the 
skeletons  which  are  embedded  in  the  depths  of  primeval 
strata.  It  was  as  absurd  to  think  that  France  could  again 
be  placed  under  the  feudal  system,  as  that  our  globe  could 
be  overrun  by  mammoths.  The  revolution  in  the  laws  and 
in  the  form  of  government  w^as  but  an  outward  sign  of  that 
mightier  revolution  which  had  taken  place  in  the  heart  and 
brain  of  the  people,  and  which  affected  every  transaction  of 
life,  trading,  farming,  studying,  marrying,  and  giving  in 
marriage.  The  French  whom  the  emigrant  prince  had  to 
govern  were  no  more  like  the  French  of  his  youth,  than  the 
French  of  his  youth  were  like  the  French  of  the  Jaquerie. 
He  came  back  to  a people  who  knew  not  him  nor  his  house, 
to  a people  to  whom  a Bourbon  was  no  more  than  a Carlo- 
vingian  or  a Merovingian.  He  might  substitute  the  white 
flag  for  the  tricolor  ; he  might  put  lilies  in  the  place  of  bees  ; 
he  might  order  the  initials  of  the  Emperor  to  be  carefully 
effaced.  But  he  could  turn  his  eyes  nowhere  without  meet- 
ing some  object  which  reminded  him  that  he  was  a stranger 
in  the  palace  of  his  fathers.  He  returned  to  a country  in 
which  even  the  passing  traveller  is  every  moment  reminded 
that  there  has  lately  been  a great  dissolution  and  reconstruc- 
tion of  the  social  system.  To  win  the  hearts  of  a people, 
under  such  circumstances,  would  have  been  no  easy  task 
even  for  Henry  the  Fourth. 

In  the  English  Revolution  the  case  was  altogether  dif- 
ferent. Charles  was  not  imposed  on  his  countrymen,  but 
sought  by  them.  His  restoration  was  not  attended  by  any 
circumstance  which  could  inflict  a wound  on  their  national 


SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


107 


pride.  Insulated  by  our  geographical  position,  insulated  by 
our  character,  we  had  fought  out  our  quarrels  and  effected 
our  reconciliation  among  ourselves.  Our  great  internal 
questions  had  never  been  mixed  up  with  the  still  greater 
question  of  national  independence.  The  political  doctrines 
of  the  Roundheads  were  not,  like  those  of  the  French  phi- 
losophers, doctrines  of  universal  application.  Our  ancestors, 
for  the  most  part,  took  their  stand,  not  on  a general  theory, 
but  oil  the  particular  constitution  of  the  realm.  They  as- 
serted the  rights,  not  of  men,  but  of  Englishmen.  Their 
doctrines,  therefore,  were  not  contagious ; and,  had  it  been 
otherwise,  no  neighboring  country  was  then  susceptible  of 
the  contagion.  The  language  in  which  our  discussions  were 
generally  conducted  was  scarcely  known  even  to  a single 
man  of  letters  out  of  the  islands.  Our  local  situation  made 
it  almost  impossible  that  we  should  effect  great  conquests 
on  the  Continent.  The  kings  of  Europe  had,  therefore,  no 
reason  to  fear  that  their  subjects  would  follow  the  example 
of  the  English  Puritans,  and  looked  with  indifference,  per- 
haps with  complacency,  on  the  death  of  the  monarch  and 
the  abolition  of  the  monarchy.  Clarendon  complains  bit- 
terly of  their  apathy.  But  we  believe  that  this  apathy  was 
of  the  greatest  service  to  the  royal  cause.  If  a French  or 
Spanish  army  had  invaded  England,  and  if  that  army  had 
been  cut  to  pieces,  as  we  have  no  doubt  that  it  would  have 
been,  on  the  first  day  on  which  it  came  face  to  face  with 
the  soldiers  of  Preston  and  Dunbar,  with  Colonel-Fight- 
the-good-Fight,  and  Captain  Smite-them-hip-and-thigh,  the 
House  of  Cromwell  would  probably  now  have  been  reign- 
ing in  England.  The  nation  would  have  forgotten  all  the 
misdeeds  of  the  man  who  had  cleared  the  soil  of  foreign  in- 
vaders. 

Happily  for  Charles,  no  European  state,  even  when  at 
war  with  the  Commonwealth,  chose  to  bind  up  its  cause 
w ith  that  of  the  wanderers  who  were  playing  in  the  garrets 
of  Paris  and  Cologne  at  being  princes  and  chancellors. 
Under  the  administration  of  Cromwell,  England  was  more 
respected  and  dreaded  than  any  power  in  Christendom  ; 
and,  even  under  the  ephemeral  governments  which  followed 
his  death,  no  foreign  state  ventured  to  treat  her  with  con- 
tempt. Thus  Charles  came  back,  not  as  a mediator  between 
his  people  and  a victorious  enemy,  but  as  a mediator  be- 
tween internal  factions.  He  found  the  Scotch  Covenanters 
and  the  Irish  Papists  alike  subdued.  He  found  Dunkirk 


108  macaulat’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

and  Jamaica  added  to  the  empire.  He  was  heir  to  the  con- 
quests and  to  the  influence  of  the  able  usurper  who  had  ex- 
cluded him. 

The  old  government  of  England,  as  it  had  been  far 
milder  than  the  old  government  of  France,  had  been  far 
less  violently  and  completely  subverted.  The  national  in- 
stitutions had  been  spared,  or  imperfectly  eradicated.  The 
laws  had  undergone  little  alteration.  The  tenures  of  the 
soil  were  still  to  be  learned  from  Littelton  and  Coke.  The 
great  Charter  was  mentioned  ivith  as  much  reverence  in  the 
parliaments  of  the  Commonwealth  as  in  those  of  any  earlier 
or  of  any  later  age.  A new  Confession  of  Faith  and  a new 
ritual  had  been  introduced  into  the  church.  But  the  bulk 
of  the  ecclesiastical  property  still  remained.  The  colleges 
still  held  their  estates.  The  parson  still  received  his  tithes. 
The  Lords  had,  at  a crisis  of  great  excitement,  been  excluded 
by  military  violence  from  their  House;  but  they  retained  their 
titles  and  an  ample  share  of  the  public  veneration.  When 
a nobleman  made  his  appearance  in  the  House  of  Commons 
he  was  received  with  ceremonious  respect.  Those  few  Peers 
who  consented  to  assist  at  the  inauguration  of  the  Protector 
were  placed  next  to  himself,  and  the  most  honorable  ofliees 
of  the  day  were  assigned  to  them.  We  learn  from  the 
debates  of  Richard’s  Parliament  how  strong  a hold  the  old 
aristocracy  had  on  the  affections  of  the  people.  One  mem- 
ber of  the  House  of  Commons  went  so  far  as  to  say  that, 
unless  their  Lordships  were  peaceably  restored,  the  country 
might  soon  be  convulsed  by  a war  of  the  Barons.  There 
was  indeed  no  great  party  hostile  to  the  Upper  House. 
There  was  nothing  exclusive  in  the  constitution  of  that  body. 
It  was  regularly  recruited  from  among  the  most  distinguished 
of  the  country  gentlemen,  the  lawyers,  and  the  clergy.  The 
most  powerful  nobles  of  the  century  which  preceded  the  civil 
war,  the  Duke  of  Somerset,  the  Duke  of  Northumberland, 
Lord  Seymour  of  Sudeley,  the  Earl  of  Leicester,  Lord 
Burleigh,  the  Earl  of  Salisbury,  the  Duke  of  Bucking- 
ham, the  Earl  Strafford,  had  all  been  commoners,  and  had 
all  raised  themselves,  by  courtly  arts  or  by  parliamentary 
talents,  not  merely  to  seats  in  the  House  of  Lords,  but 
to  the  first  influence  in  that  assembly.  Nor  had  the  gen- 
eral conduct  of  the  Peers  been  such  as  to  make  them 
unpopular.  They  had  not,  indeed,  in  opposing  arbitrary 
measures  shown  so  much  eagerness  and  pertinacity  as  the 
Commons.  But  still  they  had  opposed  those  measures. 


SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


109 


They  had,  at  the  beginning  of  the  discontents,  a common  in- 
terest with  the  people.  If  Charles  had  succeeded  in  his 
scheme  of  governing  without  pari  aments,  the  consequence 
of  the  Peers  would  have  been  grievously  diminished.  If  he 
had  been  able  to  raise  taxes  by  his  own  authority,  the  estates 
of  the  Peers  would  have  been  as  much  at  his  mercy  as  those 
of  the  merchants  or  the  farmers.  If  he  had  obtained  the 
power  of  imprisoning  his  subjects  at  his  pleasure,  a Peer  ran 
far  greater  risk  of  incurring  the  royal  displeasure,  and  of 
being  accommodated  with  apartments  in  the  Tower,  than 
any  city  trader  or  country  squire.  Accordingly  Charles 
found  that  the  Great  Council  of  Peers  which  he  convoked 
at  York  would  do  nothing  for  him.  In  the  most  useful  re- 
forms which  were  made  during  the  first  session  of  the  Long 
Parliament,  the  Peers  concurred  heartily  with  the  Lower 
House;  and  a large  and  powerful  minority  of  the  English 
nobles  stood  by  the  popular  side  through  the  first  years  of 
the  war.  At  Edgehill,  Newbury,  Marston,  and  Naseby,  the 
armies  of  the  Parliament  were  commanded  by  members  of 
the  aristocracy.  It  was  not  forgotten  that  a Peer  had  imi- 
tated the  example  of  Hampden  in  refusing  the  payment  of 
the  ship-money,  or  that  a Peer  had  been  among  the  six 
members  of  the  legislature  whom  Charles  illegally  im- 
peached. 

Thus  the  old  constitution  of  England  was  without  diffi- 
culty re-established  ; and  of  all  the  parts  of  the  old  constitu- 
tion the  monarchical  part  was,  at  the  time,  dearest  to  tho 
body  of  the  people.  It  had  been  injudiciously  depressed, 
and  it  was  in  consequence  unduly  exalted.  From  the  day 
when  Charles  the  First  became  a prisoner  had  commenced 
a reaction  in  favor  of  his  person  and  of  his  office.  From  the 
day  when  the  axe  fell  on  his  neck  before  the  windows  of  his 
palace,  that  reaction  became  rapid  and  violent.  At  the  Res- 
toration it  had  attained  such  a point  that  it  could  go  no 
further.  The  people  were  ready  to  place  at  the  mercy  of 
theii  Sovereign  all  their  most  ancient  and  precious  rights. 
The  most  servile  doctrines  were  publicly  avowed.  The 
most  moderate  and  constitutional  opposition  was  condemned. 
Resistance  was  spoken  of  with  more  horror  than  any  crime 
which  a human  being  can  commit.  The  Commons  were 
more  eager  than  the  King  himself  to  avenge  the  wrongs 
of  the  royal  house;  more  desirous  than  the  bishops  them- 
selves to  restore  the  church  ; more  ready  to  give  money 
than  the  ministers  to  ask  for  it.  They  abrogated  the  excel- 


110 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


ent  law  passed  in  tlie  first  session  of  the  Long  Parliament, 
with  the  general  consent  of  all  honest  men,  to  insure  the 
frequent  meeting  of  the  great  council  of  the  nation.  They 
might  probably  have  been  induced  to  go  further,  and  to  re- 
store the  High  Commission  and  the  Star  Chamber.  All  the 
contemporary  accounts  represent  the  nation  as  in  a state  of 
hysterical  excitement,  of  drunken  joy.  In  the  immense 
multitude  which  crowded  the  beach  at  Dover,  and  bordered 
the  road  along  which  the  king  travelled  to  London,  there 
was  not  one  who  was  not  weeping.  Bonfires  blazed.  Bells 
jingled.  The  streets  were  thronged  at  night  by  boon-com- 
panions, who  forced  all  the  passers-by  to  swallow  on  bended 
knees  brimming  glasses  to  the  health  of  his  Most  Sacred 
Majesty,  and  the  damnation  of  Red-nosed  Noll.  That  ten- 
derness to  the  fallen  which  has,  through  many  generations, 
been  a marked  feature  of  the  national  character,  was  for  a 
time  hardly  discernible.  All  London  crowded  to  shout  and 
laugh  round  the  gibbet  where  hung  the  rotting  remains  of  a 
prince  who  had  made  England  the  dread  of  the  world,  who 
had  been  the  chief  founder  of  her  maritime  greatness  and 
of  her  colonial  empire,  who  had  conquered  Scotland  and 
Ireland,  who  had  humbled  Holland  and  Spain,  the  terror 
of  whose  name  had  been  as  a guard  round  every  English 
traveller  in  remote  countries,  and  round  every  Protestant 
congregation  in  the  heart  of  Catholic  empires.  When  some 
of  those  brave  and  honest  though  misguided  men  who  had 
sat  in  judgment  on  their  King  were  dragged  on  hurdles  to 
a death  of  prolonged  torture,  their  last  prayers  were  in- 
terrupted by  the  hisses  and  execrations  of  thousands. 

Such  was  England  in  1660.  In  1678  the  whole  face  of 
things  had  changed.  At  the  former  of  those  epochs  eighteen 
years  of  commotion  had  made  the  majority  of  the  people 
ready  to  buy  repose  at  any  price.  At  the  latter  epoch  eigh- 
teen years  of  misgoxernment  had  made  the  same  majority 
desirous  to  obtain  security  for  their  liberties  at  any  risk. 
The  fury  of  their  returning  loyalty  had  spent  itself  in  its 
first  outbreak.  In  a very  few  months  they  had  hanged  and 
lialf-hanged,  quartered  and  embowelled  enough  to  satisfy 
them.  The  Roundhead  party  seemed  to  be  not  merely  over- 
come, but  too  much  broken  and  scattered  ever  to  rally  again. 
Then  commenced  the  reflux  of  public  opinion.  The  nation 
began  to  find  out  to  what  a man  it  had  intrusted  without 
conditions,  all  its  dearest  interests,  on  what  a man  it  had 
lavished  all  its  fondest  affection.  On  the  ignoble  nature  of 


SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


Ill 


the  restored  exile,  adversity  had,. exhausted  all  her  discipline 
in  vain.  He  had  one  immense  advantage  over  most  other 
princes.  Though  horn  in  the  purple,  he  was  far  better  ac- 
quainted with  the  vicissitudes  of  life  and  the  diversities  of 
character  than  most  of  his  subjects.  He  had  known  restraint, 
danger,  penury,  and  dependence.  He  had  often  suffered 
from  ingratitude,  insolence,  and  treachery.  He  had  received 
many  signal  proofs  of  faithful  and  heroic  attachment.  Ho 
had  seen,  if  ever  man  saw,  both  sides  of  human  nature.  Bat 
only  one  side  remained  in  his  memory.  He  had  learned  only  to 
despise  and  to  distrust  his  species,  to  consider  integrity  in 
men,  and  modesty  in  women,  as  mere  acting ; nor  did  he 
think  it  worth  while  to  keep  his  opinion  to  himself.  He  was 
incapable  of  friendship ; yet  he  was  perpetually  led  by  fa- 
vorites without  being  in  the  smallest  degree  duped  by  them. 
He  knew  that  their  regard  to  his  interests  was  all  simulated  ; 
but  from  a certain  easiness  which  had  no  connection  with 
humanity,  he  submitted,  half-laughing  at  himself,  to  be  made 
the  tool  of  any  woman  whose  person  attracted  him,  or  of 
any  man  whose  tattle  diverted  him.  He  thought  little  and 
cared  less  about  religion.  He  seems  to  have  passed  his  life 
in  dawdling  suspense  between  Ilobbism  and  Popery.  lie 
was  crowned  in  his  youth  with  the  Covenant  in  his  hand  ; 
he  died  at  last  with  the  Host  sticking  in  his  throat ; and  dur- 
ing most  of  the  intermediate  years,  was  occupied  in  persecu- 
ting both  Covenanters  and  Catholics.  He  was  not  a tyrant 
from  the  ordinary  motives.  He  valued  power  for  its  own 
sake  little,  and  fame  still  less.  He  does  not  appear  to  have 
been  vindictive,  or  to  have  found  any  pleasing  excitement 
in  cruelty.  What  he  wanted  was  to  bo  amused,  to  get 
through  the  twenty-four  hours  pleasantly  without  sitting 
down  to  dry  business.  Sauntering  was,  as  Sheffield  ex- 
presses it,  the  true  Sultana  Queen  of  his  Majesty’s  affections. 
A sitting  in  council  would  have  been  insupportable  to  him  if 
the  Duke  of  Buckingham  had  not  been  there  to  make  mouths 
at  the  Chancellor.  It  has  been  said,  and  is  highly  probable, 
that  in  his  exile  he  was  quite  disposed  to  sell  his  rights  to 
Cromwell  for  a good  round  sum.  To  the  last,  his  only  quar 
rel  with  his  Parliaments  was  that  they  often  gave  him  trouble, 
and  would  not  always  give  him  money.  If  there  was  a person 
for  whom  he  felt  a real  regard,  that  person  was  his  brother. 
If  there  was  a point  about  which  he  really  entertained  a 
scruple  of  conscience  or  of  honor,  that  point  was  the  descent 
of  the  crown.  Yet  he  was  willing  to  consent  to  the  Exclu- 


112  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

sion  Bill  for  six  hundred  thousand  pounds ; and  the  nego- 
tiation was  broken  off  only  because  he  insisted  on  being  paid 
beforehand.  To  do  him  justice,  his  temper  was  good  ; his 
manners  agreeable;  his  natural  talents  above  mediocrity. 
But  he  was  sensual,  frivolous,  false,  and  cold-hearted,  beyond 
almost  any  prince  of  whom  history  makes  mention. 

tinder  the  government  of  such  a man,  the  English  peo- 
ple could  not  be  long  in  recovering  from  the  intoxication  of 
loyalty.  They  were  then,  as  they  are  still,  a brave,  proud, 
and  high-spirited  race,  unaccustomed  to  defeat,  to  shame,  or 
to  servitude.  The  splendid  administration  of  Oliver  had 
taught  them  to  consider  their  country  as  a match  for  the 
greatest  empires  of  the  earth,  as  the  first  of  maritime  powers, 
as  the  head  cf  the  Protestant  interest.  Though,  in  the  day 
of  their  affectionate  enthusiasm,  they  might  sometimes  extol 
the  royal  prerogative  in  terms  which  would  have  better  be. 
come  the  courtiers  of  Aurungzebe,  they  were  not  men  whom 
it  was  quite  safe  to  take  at  their  word.  They  were  much 
more  perfect  in  the  theory  than  in  the  practice  of  passive 
obedience.  Though  they  might  deride  the  austere  manners 
and  scriptural  phrases  of  the  Puritans  they  were  still  at  heart 
a religious  people.  The  majority  saw  no  great  sin  in  field- 
sports,  stage-plays,  promiscuous  dancing,  cards,  fairs,  starch, 
or  false  hair.  But  gross  profaneness  and  licentiousness  were 
regarded  with  general  horror  ; and  the  Catholic  religion  was 
held  in  utter  detestation  by  nine  tenths  of  the  middle  class. 

Such  was  the  nation  which,  awaking  from  its  rapturous 
trance,  found  itself  sold  to  a foreign,  a despotic,  a Popish 
court,  defeated  on  its  own  seas  and  rivers  by  a state 
of  far  inferior  resources,  and  placed  under  the  rule  of 
pandars  and  buffoons.  Our  ancestors  saw  the  best  and 
ablest  divines  of  the  age  turned  out  of  their  benefices  by 
hundreds.  They  saw  the  prisons  filled  with  men  guilty  of 
ro  other  crime  than  that  of  worshipping  God  according 
co  the  fashion  generally  prevailing  throughout  Protestant 
Europe.  They  saw  a Popish  Queen  on  the  throne,  and  a 
Popish  heir  on  the  steps  of  the  throne.  They  saw  unjust 
aggression  followed  by  feeble  war,  and  feeble  Avar  ending  in 
disgraceful  peace.  They  saw  a Dutch  fleet  riding  triumph 
ant  in  the  Thames.  They  saw  the  Triple  Alliance  broken, 
. the  Exchequer  shut  up,  the  public  credit  shaken,  the  arms 
of  England  employed,  in  shameful  subordination  to  France, 
against  a country  which  seemed  to  be  the  last  asylum  of 
civil  and  religious  liberty.  They  saw  Ireland  discontented, 


SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


118 


End  Scotland  in  rebellion.  They  saw,  meantime,  Whitehall 
swarming  with  sharpers  and  courtesans.  They  saw  harlot 
after  harlot,  and  bastard  after  bastard,  not  only  raised  to 
the  highest  honors  of  the  peerage,  but  supplied  out  of  the 
spoils  of  the  honest,  industrious,  and  ruined  public  creditor, 
with  ample  means  of  supporting  the  new  dignity.  The  gov- 
ernment became  more  odious  every  day.  Even  in  the  bosom 
of  that  very  House  of  Commons  which  had  been  elected  by 
the  nation  in  the  ecstasy  of  its  penitence,  of  its  joy,  and 
of  its  hope,  an  opposition  sprang  up  and  became  powerful. 
Loyalty  which  had  been  proof  against  all  the  disasters  of 
the  civil  war,  which  had  survived  the  routs  of  Naseby  and 
Worcester,  which  had  never  flinched  from  sequestration  and 
exile,  which  the  Protector  could  never  intimidate  or  seduce, 
began  to  fail  in  this  last  and  hardest  trial.  The  storm  had 
long  been  gathering.  At  length  it  burst  with  a fury  which 
threatened  the  whole  frame  of  society  with  dissolution. 

When  the  general  election  of  January,  1679,  took  place, 
the  nation  had  retraced  the  path  which  it  had  been  describ- 
ing from  1640  to  1660.  It  was  again  in  the  same  mood  in 
which  it  had  been  when,  after  twelve  years  of  misgovern- 
ment,  the  Long  Parliament  assembled.  In  every  part  of  the 
country,  the  name  of  courtier*  had  become  a by-word  of  re- 
proach. The  old  warriors  of  the  Covenant  again  ventured 
out  of  those  retreats  in  which  they  had,  at  the  time  of  the 
Restoration,  hidden  themselves  from  the  insults  of  the  tri- 
umphant Malignants,  and  in  which,  during  twenty  years, 
they  had  preserved  in  full  vigor 

“ The  unconquerable  will 
And  study  of  revenge,  immortal  hate, 

With  courage  never  to  submit  or  yield, 

And  what  is  else  not  to  be  overcome.’’ 

Then  were  again  seen  in  the  streets  faces  which  called 
up  strange  and  terrible  recollections  of  the  days  when  the 
saints,  with  the  high  praises  of  God  in  their  mouths,  and  a 
two-edged  sword  in  their  hands,  had  bound  kings  with  chains, 
and  nobles  with  links  of  iron.  Then  were  again  heard 
voices  which  had  shouted  “ Privilege  ” by  the  coach  of 
Charles  I.  in  the  time  of  his  tyranny,  and  had  called  for 
“Justice  ” in  Westminster  Hall  on  the  day  of  his  trial.  It 
has  been  the  fashion  to  represent  the  excitement  of  this 
period  as  the  effect  of  the  Popish  plot.  To  us  it  seems 
clear  that  the  Popish  plot  was  rather  the  effect  than  the 
cause  of  the  general  agitation.  It  was  not  the  disease,  but 
Yol.  II.— 8 


114 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


a symptom,  though  like  many  other  symptoms,  it  aggravated 
the  severity  of  the  disease.  In  1660  or  1661  it  would  have 
been  utterly  out  of  the  power  of  such  men  as  Oates  or  Bed- 
loe  to  give  any  serious  disturbance  to  the  Government. 
They  would  have  been  laughed  at,  pilloried,  well  pelted, 
soundly  whipped,  and  speedily  forgotten.  In  1678  or  1679 
there  would  have  been  an  outbreak,  if  those  men  had  never 
been  born.  For  years  things  had  been  steadily  tending  to 
such  a consummation.  Society  was  one  vast  mass  of  com- 
bustible matter.  No  mass  so  vast  and  so  combustible  ever 
waited  long  for  a spark. 

Rational  men,  we  suppose,  are  now  fully  agreed  that  by 
far  the  greater  part,  if  not  the  whole,  of  Oates’s  story  was  a 
pure  fabrication.  It  is  indeed  highly  probable  that,  during 
his  intercourse  with  the  Jesuits,  he  may  have  heard  much 
wild  talk  about  the  best  means  of  re-establishing  the  Catho- 
lic religion  in  England,  and  that  from  some  of  the  absurd 
day-dreams  of  the  zealots  with  whom  he  then  associated  he 
may  have  taken  hints  for  his  narrative.  But  we  do  not  be- 
lieve that  he  was  privy  to  anything  which  deserved  the 
name  of  conspiracy.  And  it  is  quite  certain  that,  if  there 
be  any  small  portion  of  truth  in  his  evidence,  that  portion 
is  so  deeply  buried  in  falsehood  that  no  human  skill  can  now 
effect  a separation.  We  must  not,  however,  forget,  that  we 
see  his  story  by  the  light  of  much  information  which  his 
contemporaries  did  not  at  first  possess.  We  have  nothing 
to  say  for  the  witnesses,  but  something  in  mitigation  to 
offer  on  behalf  of  the  public.  We  own  that  the  credulity 
which  the  nation  showed  on  that  occasion  seems  to  us, 
though  censurable  indeed,  yet  not  wholly  inexcusable. 

Our  ancestors  knew,  from  the  experience  of  several  gen- 
erations at  home  and  abroad,  how  restless  and  encroaching 
was  the  disposition  of  the  Church  of  Rome.  The  heir- 
apparent  of  the  crown  was  a bigoted  member  of  that  church. 
The  reigning  King  seemed  far  more  inclined  to  show  favor 
to  that  church  than  to  the  Presbyterians.  He  was  the  inti- 
mate ally,  or  rather  the  hired  servant,  of  a powerful  King, 
who  had  already  given  proofs  of  his  determination  to  toler- 
ate within  his  dominions  no  other  religion  than  that  of 
Rome.  The  Catholics  had  begun  to  talk  a bolder  language 
than  formerly,  and  to  anticipate  the  restoration  of  their 
worship  in  all  its  ancient  dignity  and  splendor.  At  this 
juncture,  it  is  rumored  that  a Popish  plot  has  been  discov- 
ered, A distinguished  Catholic  is  arrested  on  suspicion, 


SIK  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


115 


It  appears  that  he  has  destroyed  almost  all  his  papers.  A. 
few  letters,  however,  have  escaped  the  flames  ; and  these 
letters  are  found  to  contain  much  alarming  matter,  strange 
expressions  about  subsidies  from  France,  allusions  to  a vast 
scheme  which  would  “ give  the  greatest  blow  to  the  Protes- 
tant religion  that  it  had  ever  received,”  and  which  “ would 
utterly  subdue  a pestilent  heresy.”  It  was  natural  that  those 
who  saw  these  expressions,  in  letters  which  had  been  over- 
looked, should  suspect  that  there  was  some  horrible  villainy 
in  those  which  had  been  carefully  destroyed.  Such  was 
the  feeling  of  the  House  of  Commons : “ Question,  ques- 
tion, Coleman’s  letters ! ” was  the  cry  which  drowned  the 
voices  of  the  minority. 

Just  after  the  discovery  of  these  papers,  a magistrate 
who  had  been  distinguished  by  Ills  independent  spirit,  and 
who  had  taken  the  deposition  of  the  informer,  is  found  mur- 
dered, under  circumstances  which  make  it  almost  incredible 
that  he  should  have  fallen  either  by  robbers  or  by  his  own 
hands.  Many  of  our  readers  can  remember  the  state  of 
London  just  after  the  murders  of  Mar  and  Williamson,  the 
terror  which  was  on  every  face,  the  careful  barring  of  doors, 
the  providing  of  blunderbusses  and  watchmen’s  rattles.  We 
know  of  a shopkeeper  who  on  that  occasion  sold  three  hun- 
dred rattles  in  about  ten  hours.  Those  who  remember  that 
panic  may  be  able  to  form  some  notion  of  the  state  of  Eng- 
land after  the  death  of  Godfrey.  Indeed,  we  must  say  that, 
after  having  read  and  weighed  all  the  evidence  now  extant 
on  that  mysterious  subject,  we  incline  to  the  opinion  that 
he  was  assassinated,  and  assassinated  by  Catholics,  not  as- 
suredly by  Catholics  of  the  least  weight  or  note,  but  by 
some  of  those  crazy  and  vindictive  fanatics  who  may  be 
found  in  every  large  sect,  and  who  are  peculiarly  likely  to  be 
found  in  a persecuted  sect.  Some  of  the  violent  Camero- 
nians  had  recently,  under  similar  exasperation,  committed 
similar  crimes. 

It  was  natural  that  there  should  be  a panic ; and  it  was 
natural  that  the  people  should,  in  a panic,  be  unreasonable 
and  credulous.  It  must  be  remembered  also  that  they  had 
not  at  first,  as  we  have,  the  means  of  comparing  the  evi- 
dence which  was  given  on  different  trials.  They  were  not 
aware  of  one  tenth  part  of  the  contradictions  and  absurd- 
ities which  Oates  had  committed.  The  blunders,  for  ex- 
ample, into  which  he  fell  before  the  Council,  his  mistake 
about  the  person  of  Don  John  of  Austria,  and  about  the 


116  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writing* 

situation  of  the  Jesuits’  College  at  Paris,  were  net  publicly 
known.  He  was  a bad  man  ; but  the  spies  and  deserters  by 
whom  governments  are  informed  of  conspiracies  are  gener- 
ally bad  men.  His  story  was  strange  and  romantic ; but  it 
was  not  more  strange  or  romantic  than  a well-authenticated 
Popish  plot,  which  some  few  people  then  living  might  re- 
member, the  Gunpowder  treason.  Oates’s  account  of  the 
burning  of  London  was  in  itself  not  more  improbable  than 
the  project  of  blowing  up  King,  Lords,  and  Commons,  a 
project  which  had  not  only  been  entertained  by  very  dis- 
tinguished Catholics,  but  which  had  very  narrowly  missed 
of  success.  As  to  the  design  on  the  King’s  person,  all  the 
world  knew  that,  within  a century,  two  kings  of  France  and 
a prince  of  Orange  had  been  murdered  by  Catholics,  purely 
from  religious  enthusiasm,  that  Elizabeth  had  been  in  con- 
stant danger  of  a similar  fate,  and  that  such  attempts,  to 
6ay  the  least,  had  not  been  discouraged  by  the  highest  au- 
thority of  the  Church  of  Rome.  The  characters  of  some  of 
the  accused  persons  stood  high ; but  so  did  that  of  Anthony 
Babington,  and  that  of  Everard  Digby.  Those  who  suffered 
denied  their  guilt  to  the  last ; but  no  person  versed  in  crim- 
inal proceedings  would  attach  any  importance  to  this  cir- 
cumstance. It  was  well  known  also  that  the  most  dis- 
tinguished Catholic  casuists  had  written  largely  in  defence 
of  regicide,  of  mental  reservation  and  of  equivocation.  It 
was  not  quite  impossible  that  men  whose  minds  had  been 
nourished  with  the  writings  of  such  casuists  might  think 
themselves  justified  in  denying  a charge  which,  if  acknowl- 
edged, would  bring  great  scandal  on  the  Church.  The 
trials  of  the  accused  Catholics  were  exactly  like  all  the  state 
trials  of  those  days ; that  is  to  say,  as  infamous  as  they 
could  be.  They  were  neither  fairer  nor  less  fair  than  those 
of  Algernon  Sydney,  of  Rosewell,  of  Cornish,  of  all  the  un- 
happy men,  in  short,  whom  a predominant  party  brought 
to  what  was  then  facetiously  called  justice.  Till  the  Revo- 
lution purified  our  institutions  and  our  manners,  a state 
trial  was  merely  a murder  preceded  by  the  uttering  of  cer- 
tain gibberish  and  the  performance  of  certain  mummeries. 

The  Opposition  had  now  the  great  body  of  the  nation 
with  them.  Thrice  the  King  dissolved  the  Parliament ; 
and  thrice  the  constituent  body  sent  him  back  representa- 
tives fully  determined  to  keep  strict  watch  on  all  his  meas- 
ures,  and  to  exclude  his  brother  from  the  throne.  Had  the 
character  of  Charles  resembled  that  of  hia  father,  this  in 


SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


117 


testme  discord  would  infallibly  have  ended  in  a civil  war. 
Obstinacy  and  passion  would  have  been  his  ruin.  His  levity 
and  apathy  were  his  security.  He  resembled  one  of  those 
light  Indian  boats  which  are  safe  because  they  are  pliant, 
which  yield  to  the  impact  of  every  wave,  and  which  there- 
fore bound  without  danger  through  a surf  in  which  a vessel 
ribbed  with  heart  of  oak  would  inevitably  perish.  The  only 
thing  about  which  his  mind  was  unalterably  made  up  was 
that,  to  use  his  own  phrase,  he  would  not  go  on  his  travels 
again  for  anybody  or  for  anything.  His  easy,  indolent  be- 
havior produced  all  the  effects  of  the  most  artful  policy. 
He  suffered  things  to  take  their  course  ; and  if  Achitophel 
had  been  at  one  of  his  ears,  and  Machiavel  at  the  other, 
they  could  have  given  him  no  better  advice  than  to  let 
things  take  their  course.  He  gave  way  to  the  violence  of 
the  movement,  and  waited  for  the  corresponding  violence 
of  the  rebound.  He  exhibited  himself  to  his  subjects  in  the 
interesting  character  of  an  oppressed  king,  who  was  ready 
to  do  anything  to  please  them,  and  who  asked  of  them  in 
return,  only  some  consideration  for  his  conscientious  scruples 
and  for  his  feelings  of  natural  affection,  who  was  ready  to 
accept  any  ministers,  to  grant  any  guarantees  to  public  lib- 
erty, but  who  could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  take  away  his 
brother’s  birthright.  Nothing  more  was  necessary.  He 
had  to  deal  with  a people  whose  noble  weakness  it  has  al- 
ways been  not  to  press  too  hardly  on  the  vanquished,  with 
a people  the  lowest  and  most  brutal  of  whom  cry  “ Shame  ! ” 
if  they  see  a man  struck  when  he  is  on  the  ground.  The 
resentment  which  the  nation  had  felt  towards  the  Court  be- 
gan to  abate  as  soon  as  the  Court  was  manifestly  unable  to 
offer  any  resistance.  The  panic  which  Godfrey’s  death  had 
excited  gradually  subsided.  Every  day  brought  to  light 
some  new  falsehood  or  contradiction  in  the  stories  of  Oates 
and  Bedloe.  The  people  were  glutted  with  the  blood  of 
Papists,  as  they  had,  twenty  years  before,  been  glutted  with 
the  blood  of  regicides.  When  the  first  sufferers  in  the  pilot 
were  brought  to  the  bar,  the  witnesses  for  the  defence  were 
in  danger  of  being  torn  in  pieces  by  the  mob.  Judges, 
jurors,  and  spectators  seemed  equally  indifferent  to  justice, 
and  equally  eager  for  revenge.  Lord  Stafford,  the  last  suf- 
ferer, was  pronounced  not  guilty  by  a large  minority  of  his 
peers ; and  when  he  protested  his  innocence  on  the  scaffold, 
the  people  cried  out,  “ God  bless  you,  my  lord ; vre  believe 
you,  my  lord.”  The  attempt  to  make  a son  of  Lucy  Waters 


118 


MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WR11  tNGS. 


King  of  England  was  alike  offensive  to  the  pride  of  the 
nobles  and  to  the  moral  feeling  of  the  middle  class.  The 
old  Cavalier  party,  the  great  majority  of  the  landed  gentry, 
the  clergy  and  the  universities  almost  to  a man,  began  to 
draw  together,  and  to  form  in  close  array  round  the  throne. 

A similar  reaction  had  begun  to  take  place  in  favor  of 
Charles  the  First  during  the  second  session  of  the  Long 
Parliament ; and,  if  that  prince  had  been  honest  or  saga- 
cious enough  to  keep  himself  strictly  within  the  limits  of 
the  law,  we  have  not  the  smallest  doubt  that  he  would  in  a 
few  months  have  found  himself  at  least  as  powerful  as  his 
best  friends,  Lord  Falkland,  Culpeper,  or  Hyde,  would  have 
wished  to  sec  him.  By  illegally  impeaching  the  leaders  of 
the  Opposition,  and  by  making  in  person  a wicked  attempt 
on  the  House  of  Commons,  he  stopped  and  turned  back  that 
tide  of  loyal  feeling  which  was  just  beginning  to  run  strongly. 
The  son,  quite  as  little  restrained  by  law  or  by  honor  as  the 
father,  was,  luckily  for  himself,  a man  of  a lounging,  care- 
less temper,  and,  from  temper,  we  believe,  rather  than 
from  policy,  escaped  that  great  error  which  cost  the  father 
so  dear.  Instead  of  trying  to  pluck  the  fruit  before  it  was 
ripe,  he  lay  still  till  it  fell  mellow  into  his  very  mouth.  If 
lie  had  arrested  Lord  Shaftesbury  and  Lord  Russell  in  a man- 
ner not  warranted  by  law,  it  is  not  improbable  that  he 
Avould  have  ended  his  life  in  exile.  He  took  the  sure  course. 
He  employed  only  his  legal  prerogatives,  and  he  found  them 
amply  sufficient  for  his  purpose. 

During  the  first  eighteen  or  nineteen  years  of  his  reign, 
lie  had  been  playing  the  game  of  his  enemies.  From  1678 
to  1681,  his  enemies  had  played  his  game.  They  owed  their 
power  to  his  misgovernment.  He  owed  the  recovery  of  his 
power  to  their  violence.  The  great  body  of  the  people 
came  back  to  him  after  their  estrangement  with  impetuous 
affection.  He  had  scarcely  been  more  popular  when  he 
landed  on  the  coast  of  Kent  than  when,  after  several  years 
of  restraint  and  humiliation,  he  dissolved  his  last  Parliament. 

Nevertheless,  while  this  flux  and  reflux  of  opinion  went 
on,  the  cause  of  public  liberty  was  steadily  gaining.  There 
had  been  a great  reaction  in  favor  of  the  throne  at  the  Res- 
toration. But  the  Star-Chamber,  the  High  Commission,  the 
Ship-money,  had  forever  disappeared.  There  was  now  an- 
other similar  reaction.  But  the  Ilabeas-Corpus  Act  had 
been  passed  during  the  short  predominance  of  the  Opposi- 
tion, and  it  was  not  repealed, 


SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


119 


The  King,  however,  supported  as  he  was  by  the  nation, 
was  quite  strong  enough  to  inflict  a terrible  revenge  on  the 
party  which  had  lately  held  him  in  bondage.  In  1681  com- 
menced the  third  of  those  periods  into  which  we  have  di- 
vided the  history  of  England  from  the  Restoration  to  the 
Revolution.  During  this  period  a third  great  reaction  took 
place.  The  excesses  of  tyranny  restored  to  the  cause  of 
liberty  the  hearts  which  had  been  alienated  from  that  cause 
by  the  excesses  of  faction.  In  1681,  the  King  had  almost 
his  enemies  at  his  feet.  In  1688,  the  King  was  an  exile  in 
a strange  land. 

The  whole  of  that  machinery  which  had  lately  been  in 
motion  against  the  Papists  was  now  in  motion  against  the 
Whigs,  browbeating  judges,  packed  juries,  lying  witnesses, 
clamorous  spectators.  The  ablest  chief  of  the  party  fled  to 
a foreign  country  and  died  there.  The  most  virtuous  man 
of  the  party  was  beheaded.  Another  of  its  most  distin- 
guished members  preferred  a voluntary  death  to  the  shame 
of  a public  execution.  The  boroughs  on  which  the  govern- 
ment could  not  depend  were,  by  means  of  legal  quibbles, 
deprived  of  their  charters;  and  their  constitution  was  re- 
modelled in  such  a manner  as  almost  to  insure  the  return 
of  representatives  devoted  to  the  Court.  All  parts  of  the 
kingdom  emulously  sent  up  the  most  extravagant  assur- 
ances of  the  love  which  they  bore  to  their  sovereign,  and  of 
the  abhorrence  with  which  they  regarded  those  who  ques- 
tioned the  divine  origin  or  the  boundless  extent  of  h:s 
power.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that,  in  this  hot  com- 
petition of  bigots  and  slaves,  the  University  of  Oxford  had 
the  unquestioned  preeminence.  The  glory  of  being  farther 
behind  the  age  than  any  other  portion  of  the  British  people, 
is  one  which  that  learned  body  acquired  early,  and  has  never 
lost. 

Charles  died,  and  his  brother  came  to  the  throne ; but, 
though  the  person  of  the  sovereign  was  changed,  the  love 
and  awe  with  which  the  office  was  regarded  were  undimim 
ished.  Indeed,  it  seems  that,  of  the  two  princes,  James  was, 
in  spite  of  his  religion,  rather  the  favorite  of  the  High 
Church  party.  He  had  been  specially  singled  out  as  the 
mark  of  the  Whigs ; and  this  circumstance  sufficed  to  make 
him  the  idol  of  the  Tories.  He  called  a parliament.  The 
loyal  gentry  of  the  counties  and  the  packed  voters  of  the 
remodelled  boroughs  gave  him  a parliament  such  as  Eng 
land  had  not  seen  for  a century,  a parliament  beyond  al 


120  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wtutings. 

comparison  tlie  most  obsequious  that  ever  sat  under  a prince 
of  the  House  of  Stuart.  One  insurrectionary  movement, 
indeed,  took  place  in  England  and  another  in  Scotland. 
Both  were  put  down  with  ease,  and  punished  with  tremen- 
dous severity.  Even  after  that  bloody  circuit,  which  will 
never  be  forgotten  while  the  English  race  exists  in  any  part 
of  the  globe,  no  member  of  the  House  of  Commons  ventured 
to  whisper  even  the  mildest  censure  on  Jeffreys.  Edmund 
Waller,  emboldened  by  his  great  age  and  his  high  reputation, 
attacked  the  cruelty  of  the  military  chiefs  ; and  this  is  the 
brightest  part  of  his  long  and  checkered  public  life.  But 
even  Waller  did  not  venture  to  arraign  the  still  more  odious 
cruelty  of  the  Chief  Justice.  It  is  hardly  too  much  to  say 
that  James,  at  that  time,  had  little  reason  to  envy  the  extent 
of  authority  possessed  by  Lewis  the  Fourteenth. 

By  what  means  this  vast  power  was  in  three  years 
broken  down,  by  what  perverse  and  frantic  misgovernment 
the  tyrant  revived  the  spirit  of  the  vanquished  Whigs,  turned 
to  fixed  hostility  the  neutrality  of  the  trimmers,  and  drove 
from  him  the  landed  gentry,  the  Church,  the  army,  his  own 
creatures,  his  own  children,  is  well  known  to  our  readers. 
But  we  wish  to  say  something  about  one  part  of  the  ques- 
tion, which  in  our  own  time  has  a little  puzzled  some  very 
worthy  men,  and  about  which  the  author  of  the  Continua- 
tion before  us  has  said  much  with  which  we  can  by  no  means 
concur. 

James,  it  is  said,  declared  himself  a supporter  of  tolera- 
tion. If  he  violated  the  constitution,  he  at  least  violated  it 
for  one  of  the  noblest  ends  that  any  statesman  ever  had  in 
view.  His  object  was  to  free  millions  of  his  subjects  from 
penal  laws  and  disabilities  which  hardly  any  person  now 
considers  as  just.  He  ought,  therefore,  to  be  regarded  as 
blameless,  or,  at  worst,  as  guilty  only  of  employing  irregu- 
lar means  to  effect  a most  praiseworthy  purpose.  A very 
ingenious  man,  whom  we  believe  to  be  a Catholic,  Mr. 
Banim,  has  written  a historical  novel,  of  the  literary  merit  of 
which  we  cannot  speak  very  highly,  for  the  purpose  of  incul- 
cating this  opinion.  The  editor  of  Mackintosh’s  Fragment 
assures  us,  that  the  standard  of  James  Lore  the  nobler  in- 
scription, and  so  forth ; the  meaning  of  which  is-,  that  Wil- 
liam and  the  other  authors  of  the  Revolution  were  vile 
Whigs  who  drove  out  James  for  being  a Radical ; that 
the  crime  of  the  King  was  his  going  farther  in  liberality 
than  his  subjects ; that  he  was  the  real  champion  of  free- 


SIB  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


121 


doai;  and  that  Somers,  Locke,  Newton,  and  other  narrow- 
minded  people  of  the  same  sort,  were  the  real  bigots  and 
oppressors. 

Now,  we  admit  that  if  the  premises  can  be  made  out, 
the  conclusion  follows.  If  it  can  be  shown  that  James  did 
sincerely  wish  to  establish  perfect  freedom  of  conscience,  we 
shall  think  his  conduct  deserving  of  indulgence,  if  not  of 
praise.  We  shall  not  be  inclined  to  censure  harshly  even 
his  illegal  acts.  We  conceive  that  so  noble  and  salutary  an 
object  would  have  justified  resistance  on  the  part  of  sub- 
jects. We  can  therefore  scarcely  deny  that  it  would  at 
least  excuse  encroachment  on  the  part  of  a king.  But  it 
can  be  proved,  we  think,  by  the  strongest  evidence,  that 
James  had  no  such  object  in  view ; and  that,  under  the  pre- 
tence of  establishing  perfect  religious  liberty,  he  was  trying 
to  establish  the  ascendency  and  the  exclusive  dominion  of 
the  Church  of  Rome. 

It  is  true  that  he  professed  himself  a supporter  of  tolera- 
tion. Every  sect  clamors  for  toleration  when  it  is  down. 
We  have  not  the  smallest  doubt  that,  when  Bonner  was  in 
the  Marshalsea,  he  thought  it  a very  hard  thing  that  a man 
should  be  locked  up  in  a jail  for  not  being  able  to  under- 
stand the  words,  “ This  is  my  body,”  in  the  same  way  with 
the  lords  of  the  council.  It  would  not  be  very  wise  to  con- 
clude that  a beggar  is  full  of  Christian  charity,  because  he 
assures  you  that  God  will  reward  you  if  you  give  him  a 
penny ; or  that  a soldier  is  humane,  because  he  cries  out  lus- 
tily for  quarter  when  a bayonet  is  at  his  throat.  The  doc- 
trine which,  from  the  very  first  origin  of  religious  dissen- 
tions,  has  been  held  by  all  bigots  of  all  sects,  when  con- 
densed into  a few  words,  and  stripped  of  rhetorical  disguise 
is  simply  this  : I am  in  the  right,  and  you  are  in  the  wrong. 
When  you  are  the  stronger  you  ought  to  tolerate  me ; for  it 
is  your  duty  to  tolerate  truth.  But  when  I am  the  stronger, 
I shall  persecute  you  ; for  it  is  my  duty  to  persecute  error. 

The  Catholics  lay  under  severe  restraints  in  England. 
James  wished  to  remove  those  restraints  ; and  therefore  he 
he/d  a language  favorable  to  liberty  of  conscience.  But  the 
whole  history  of  his  life  proves  that  this  was  a mere  pre- 
tence. In  1679  he  held  similar  language,  in  a conversation 
with  the  magistrates  of  Amsterdam  ; and  the  author  of  the 
Continuation  refers  to  this  circumstance  as  a proof  that  the 
King  had  long  entertained  a strong  feeling  on  the  subject. 
Unhappily  it  proves  only  the  utter  insineerity  of  &U  the 


122  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

King’s  later  professions.  If  he  had  pretended  to  be  con- 
verted to  the  doctrines  of  toleration  after  his  accession  to 
the  throne,  some  credit  might  have  been  due  to  him.  But 
we  know  most  certainly  that,  in  1679,  and  long  after  that 
year,  James  was  a most  bloody  and  remorseless  per- 
secutor. After  1679  he  was  placed  at  the  head  of 
the  government  of  Scotland.  And  what  had  been  his 
conduct  in  that  country?  He  had  hunted  down  the 
scattered  remnant  of  the  Covenanters  with  a barbarity  of 
which  no  other  prince  of  modern  times,  Philip  the  Second 
excepted,  had  ever  shown  himself  capable.  He  had  indulged 
himself  in  the  amusement  of  seeing  the  torture  of  the  Boot 
inflicted  on  the  wretched  enthusiasts  wrhom  persecution  had 
driven  to  resistance.  After  his  accession,  almost  his  first 
act  was  to  obtain  from  the  servile  parliament  of  Scotland  a 
law  for  inflicting  death  on  preachers  at  conventicles  held 
within  houses,  and  on  both  preachers  and  hearers  at  con- 
venticles held  in  the  open  air.  All  this  he  had  done  for 
a religion  which  was  not  his  own.  All  this  he  had  done, 
not  in  defence  of  truth  against  error,  but  in  defence  of  one 
damnable  error  against  another,  in  defence  of  the  Episcopa- 
lian against  the  Presbyterian  apostasy.  Lewis  the  Four- 
teenth is  justly  censured  for  trying  to  dragoon  his  subjects 
to  heaven.  But  it  was  reserved  for  James  to  torture  and 
murder  for  the  difference  between  two  roads  to  hell.  And 
this  man,  so  deeply  imbued  with  the  poison  of  intolerance 
that,  rather  than  not  persecute  at  all,  he  would  persecute 
people  out  of  one  heresy  into  another,  this  man  is  held  up 
as  the  champion  of  religious  liberty.  This  man,  who  perse- 
cuted in  the  cause  of  the  unclean  panther,  would  not,  we  are 
told,  have  persecuted  for  the  sake  of  the  milk-white  and 
immortal  hind. 

And  what  was  the  conduct  of  James  at  the  very  time 
when  he  was  professing  zeal  for  the  rights  of  conscience  ? 
Was  he  not  even  then  persecuting  to  the  very  best  of 
his  power  ? W as  he  not  employing  all  his  legal  preroga- 
tives, and  many  prerogatives  which  were  not  legal,  for  the 
purpose  of  forcing  his  subjects  to  conform  to  his  creed? 
While  he  pretended  to  abhor  the  laws  which  excluded  Dis- 
senters from  office,  was  he  not  himself  dismissing  from 
office  his  ablest,  his  most  experienced,  his  most  faithful  ser- 
vants, on  account  of  their  religious  opinions?  For  what 
offence  was  Lord  Rochester  driven  from  the  Treasury  ? He 
was  closely  connected  with  the  Royal  House.  He  was  at 


SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


123 


the  head  of  the  Tory  party.  He  had  stood  firmly  by  James 
in  the  most  trying  emergencies.  But  he  would  not  change 
his  religion,  and  he  was  dismissed.  That  we  may  not  be 
suspected  of  overstating  the  case,  Dr.  Lingard,  a very  com- 
petent, and  assuredly  not  a very  willing  witness,  shall  speak 
for  us.  “ The  King,”  says  that  able  but  partial  writer,  “ was 
disappointed : he  complained  to  Barillon  of  the  obstinacy 
and  insincerity  of  the  treasurer;  and  the  latter  received 
from  the  French  envoy  a very  intelligible  hint  that  the  loss 
of  office  would  result  from  his  adhesion  to  his  religious  creed. 
He  was,  however,  inflexible ; and  James,  after  a long  delay, 
communicated  to  him,  but  with  considerable  embarrassment 
and  many  tears,  his  final  determination.  He  had  hoped,  he 
said,  that  Rochester,  by  conforming  to  the  Church  of  Rome, 
would  have  spared  him  the  unpleasant  task ; but  kings  must 
sacrifice  their  feelings  to  their  duty.”  And  this  was  the 
King  who  wished  to  have  all  men  of  all  sects  rendered  alike 
capable  of  holding  office.  These  proceedings  were  alone 
sufficient  to  take  away  all  credit  from  his  liberal  professions  ; 
and  such,  as  we  learn  from  the  despatches  of  the  Papal 
Nuncio,  was  really  the  effect.  “Pare,”  says  D’Adda,  wri- 
ting a few  days  after  the  retirement  of  Rochester,  “ pare  che 
gli  animi  sono  inaspriti  della  voce  che  corre  tra  il  popolo, 
d’  esser  cacciato  il  detto  ministro  per  non  essere  Cattolico, 
percio  tirarsi  al  esterminio  de’  Protestanti.”  Was  it  ever 
denied  that  the  favors  of  the  Crown  were  constantly  be- 
stowed and  withheld  purely  on  account  of  the  religious  opin- 
ions of  the  claimants  ? And  if  these  things  were  done  in  the 
green  tree,  what  would  have  been  done  in  the  dry?  If 
James  acted  thus  when  he  had  the  strongest  motives  to  court 
His  Protestant  subjects,  what  course  was  he  likely  to  follow 
when  he  had  obtained  from  them  all  that  he  asked. 

Who  again  was  his  closest  ally  ? And  what  was  the 
policy  of  that  ally?  The  subjects  of  James,  it  is  true,  did 
not  know  half  the  infamy  of  their  sovereign.  They  did  not 
know,  as  we  know,  that,  while  he  was  lecturing  them  on  the 
blessings  of  equal  toleration,  he  was  constantly  congratula- 
ting his  good  brother  Lewis  on  the  success  of  that  intoler- 
ant policy  which  turned  the  fairest  tracts  of  France  into 
deserts,  and  driven  into  exile  myriads  of  the  most  peaceable, 
industrious,  and  skilful  artisans  in  the  world.  But  the  Eng- 
lish did  not  know  that  the  two  princes  were  bound  together 
in  the  closest  union.  They  saw  their  sovereign  with  tolera* 
tion  on  his  lips,  separating  himself  from  those  states  which 


124  macattlay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

had  first  set  the  example  of  toleration,  and  connecting  him- 
self by  the  strongest  ties  with  the  most  faithless  and  merci- 
less persecutor  who  could  then  be  found  on  any  continental 
throne. 

By  what  advice  again  was  James  guided?  Who  were 
the  persons  in  whom  he  placed  the  greatest  confidence,  and 
who  took  the  warmest  interest  in  liis  schemes  ? The  am- 
bassador of  France,  the  Nuncio  of  Rome,  and  Father  Petre 
the  Jesuit.  And  is  not  this  enough  to  prove  that  the  estab- 
lishment of  equal  toleration  was  not  his  plan  ? Was  Lewis 
for  toleration?  Was  the  Vatican  for  toleration?  Was 
the  order  of  Jesuits  for  toleration?  We  know  that  the 
liberal  professions  of  James  were  highly  approved  by  those 
very  governments,  by  those  very  societies,  whose  theory 
and  practice  it  notoriously  was  to  keep  no  faith  with  here- 
tics and  to  give  no  quarter  to  heretics.  And  are  we,  in 
order  to  save  James’s  reputation  for  sincerity,  to  believe 
that  all  at  once  those  governments  and  those  societies  had 
changed  their  nature,  had  discovered  the  criminality  of  all 
their  former  conduct,  had  adopted  principles  far  more  liberal 
than  those  of  Locke,  of  Leighton,  or  of  Tillotson  ? Which 
is  the  more  probable  supposition,  that  the  King  who  had  re- 
voked the  edict  of  Nantes,  the  Pope  under  whose  sanction 
the  Inquisition  was  then  imprisoning  and  burning,  the  relig- 
ious order  which,  in  every  controversy  in  which  it  had  ever 
been  engaged,  had  called  in  the  aid  either  of  the  magistrate 
or  of  the  assassin,  should  have  become  as  thorough-going 
friends  to  religious  liberty  as  Dr.  Franklin  and  Mr.  Jeffer- 
son, or  that  a Jesuit-ridden  bigot  should  be  induced  to 
dissemble  for  the  good  of  the  Church  ? 

The  game  which  the  Jesuits  were  playing  was  no  new 
game.  A hundred  years  before  they  had  preached  up  polit- 
ical freedom,  just  as  they  were  now  preaching  up  religious 
freedom.  They  had  tried  to  raise  the  republicans  against 
Henry  the  Fourth  and  Elizabeth,  just  as  they  were  now 
trying  to  raise  the  Protestant  Dissenters  against  the  Estab- 
lished Church.  In  the  sixteenth  century,  the  tools  of  Philip 
the  Second  were  constantly  preaching  doctrines  that  bor- 
dered on  Jacobinism,  constantly  insisting  on  the  right  of 
the  people  to  cashier  kings,  and  of  every  private  citizen 
to  plunge  his  dagger  into  the  heart  of  a wicked  ruler. 
In  the  seventeenth  century,  the  persecutors  of  the  Hugue- 
nots were  crying  out  against  the  tyranny  of  the  Established 
Church  of  England,  and  vindicating  with  the  utmost  fervor 


SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


125 


the  right  of  every  man  to  adore  God  after  his  own  fashion. 
In  both  cases  they  were  alike  insincere.  In  both  cases  the 
fool  who  had  trusted  them  would  have  found  himself  miser- 
ably duped.  A good  and  wise  man  would  doubtless  dis- 
approve of  the  arbitrary  measures  of  Elizabeth.  But  would 
he  have  really  served  the  interests  of  political  liberty,  if  he 
had  put  faith  in  the  professions  of  the  Romish  casuists, 
joined  their  party,  and  taken  a share  in  Northumberland’s 
revolt,  or  in  Babington’s  conspiracy?  Would  he  not  have 
been  assisting  to  establish  a far  worse  tyranny  than  that 
which  he  was  trying  to  put  down  ? In  the  same  manner,  a 
good  and  wise  man  would  doubtless  see  very  much  to  con 
demn  in  the  conduct  of  the  Church  of  England  under  the 
Stuarts.  But  was  he  therefore  to  join  the  King  and  the 
Catholics  against  that  Church  ? And  was  it  not  plain  that, 
by  so  doing,  he  would  assist  in  setting  up  a spiritual  despot- 
ism, compared  with  wdiich  the  despotism  of  the  Establish- 
ment was  as  a little  finger  to  the  loins,  as  a rod  of  whips  to 
a rod  of  scorpions  ? 

Lewis  had  ajar  stronger  mind  than  James.  He  had  at 
least  an  equally  high  sense  of  honor.  He  was  in  a much 
less  degree  the  slave  of  his  priests.  His  Protestant  subjects 
had  all  the  security  for  their  rights  of  conscience  which  law 
and  solemn  compact  could  give.  Had  that  security  been 
found  sufficient  ? And  was  not  one  such  instance  enough 
for  one  generation  ? 

The  plan  of  James  seems  to  us  perfectly  intelligible. 
The  toleration  which,  with  the  concurrence  and  a]3plause  of 
all  the  most  cruel  persecutors  in  Europe,  he  w^as  offering  to 
his  people,  wTas  meant  simply  to  divide  them.  This  is  the 
most  obvious  and  vulgar  of  political  artifices.  We  have 
seen  it  employed  a hundred  times  within  our  own  memory. 
Ai  this  moment  we  see  the  Carlists  in  France  hallooing  on 
the  Extreme  Left  against  the  Centre  Left.  Four  years  ago 
the  same  trick  was  practised  in  England.  We  heard  old 
buyers  and  sellers  of  boroughs,  men  who  had  been  seated 
in  the  House  of  Commons  by  the  unsparing  use  of  eject- 
ments, and  who  had,  through  their  whole  lives,  opposed 
every  measure  which  tended  to  increase  the  power  of  the 
democracy,  abusing  the  Reform  Bill  as  not  democratic 
enough,  appealing  to  the  laboring  classes,  execrating  the 
tyranny  of  the  ten-pound  householders,  and  exchanging 
compliments  and  caresses  with  the  most  noted  incendiaries 
of  our  time,  The  cry  of  universal  toleration  was  employed 


126 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


by  James,  just  as  the  cry  of  universal  suffrage  was  lately 
employed  by  some  veteran  Tories.  The  object  of  the  mock 
democrats  of  our  time  was  to  produce  a conflict  between 
the  middle  classes  and  the  multitude,  and  thus  to  prevent 
all  reform.  The  object  of  James  was  to  produce  a conflict 
between  the  Church  and  the  Protestant  Dissenters,  and  thus 
tc  facilitate  the  victory  of  the  Catholics  over  both. 

We  do  not  believe  that  he  could  have  succeeded.  But 
we  do  not  think  his  plan  so  utterly  frantic  and  hopeless  as 
it  has  generally  been  thought ; and  we  are  sure  that,  if  he 
had  been  allowed  to  gain  his  first  point,  the  people  would 
have  no  remedy  left  but  an  appeal  to  physical  force,  which 
would  have  been  made  under  most  unfavorable  circum- 
stances. He  conceived  that  the  Tories,  hampered  by  their 
professions  of  passive  obedience,  would  have  submitted  to 
his  pleasure,  and  that  the  Dissenters,  seduced  by  his  delu- 
sive promises  of  relief,  would  have  given  him  strenuous 
support.  In  this  way  he  hoped  to  obtain  a law,  nominally 
for  the  removal  of  all  religious  disabilities,  but  really  for  the 
excluding  of  all  Protestants  from  all  offices.  It  is  never  to 
be  forgotten  that  a prince  who  lias  all  the  patronage  of  the 
state  in  his  hands  can,  without  violating  the  letter  of  the 
law,  establish  whatever  test  he  chooses.  And,  from  the 
whole  conduct  of  James,  we  have  not  the  smallest  doubt 
that  he  would  have  availed  himself  of  his  power  to  the  ut- 
most. The  statute-book  might  declare  all  Englishmen 
equally  capable  of  holding  office ; but  to  what  end,  if  all 
offices  were  in  the  gift  of  a sovereign  resolved  not  to  employ 
a single  heretic?  We  firmly  believe  that  not  one  post  in 
the  government,  in  the  army,  in  the  navy,  on  the  bench,  or 
at  the  bar,  not  one  peerage,  nay  not  one  ecclesiastical  bene- 
fice in  the  royal  gift,  would  have  been  bestowed  on  any 
Protestant  of  any  persuasion.  Even  while  the  King  had 
still  strong  motives  to  dissemble,  he  had  made  a Catholic 
Dean  of  Christ  Church  and  a Catholic  President  of  Mag- 
dalen College.  There  seems  to  be  no  doubt  that  the  See 
of  York  was  kept  vacant  for  another  Catholic.  If  James 
had  been  suffered  to  follow  this  course  for  twenty  years, 
every  military  man  from  a general  to  a drummer,  every 
officer  of  a ship,  every  judge,  every  King’s  counsel,  every 
lord-lieutenant  of  a county,  every  justice  of  the  peace,  every 
ambassador,  every  minister  of  state,  every  person  employed 
in  the  royal  household,  in  the  custom-house,  in  the  post- 
office,  in  the  excise,  would  have  been  a Catholic.  The 


SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


127 


Catholics  would  have  had  a majority  in  the  House  of  Lords, 
even  if  that  majority  had  been  made,  as  Sunderland  threat- 
ened, by  bestowing  coronets  on  a whole  troop  of  the  Guards. 
Catholics  would  have  had,  we  believe,  the  chief  weight  even 
in  the  Convocation.  Every  bishop,  every  dean,  every  holder 
of  a crown  living,  every  head  of  every  college  which  was 
subject  to  the  royal  power,  would  have  belonged  to  the 
Church  of  Rome.  Almost  all  the  places  of  liberal  education 
would  have  been  under  the  direction  of  Catholics.  The 
whole  power  of  licensing  books  would  have  been  in  the 
hands  of  Catholics.  All  this  immense  mass  of  power  would 
have  been  steadily  supported  by  the  arms  and  by  the  gold 
of  France,  and  would  have  descended  to  an  heir  whose 
whole  education  would  have  been  conducted  with  a view  to 
one  single  end,  the  complete  re-establishment  of  the  Catholic 
religion.  The  House  of  Commons  would  have  been  the 
only  legal  obstacle.  But  the  rights  of  a great  portion  of 
electors  were  at  the  mercy  of  the  courts  of  law ; and  the 
courts  of  law  were  absolutely  dependent  on  the  Crown. 
We  cannot  therefore  think  it  altogether  impossible  that  a 
house  might  have  been  packed  which  would  have  restored 
the  days  of  Mary. 

We  certainly  do  not  believe  that  this  would  have  been 
tamely  borne.  But  we  do  believe  that,  if  the  nation  had 
been  deluded  by  the  King’s  professions  of  toleration,  all  this 
would  have  been  attempted,  and  could  have  been  averted 
only  by  a most  bloody  and  destructive  contest,  in  which  the 
whole  Protestant  population  would  have  been  opposed  to 
the  Catholics.  On  the  one  side  would  have  been  a vast 
numerical  superiority.  But  on  the  other  side  would  have 
been  the  whole  organization  of  government,  and  two  great 
disciplined  armies,  that  of  James,  and  that  of  Lewis.  We 
do  not  doubt  that  the  nation  would  have  achieved  its  de- 
liverance. But  we  believe  that  the  struggle  would  have 
shaken  the  whole  fabric  of  society,  and  that  the  vengeance 
of  the  conquerors  would  have  been  terrible  and  unsparing. 

But  James  was  stopped  at  the  outset.  He  thought  him- 
self secure  of  the  Tories,  because  they  professed  to  consider 
all  resistance  as  sinful,  and  of  the  Protestant  Dissenters,  be- 
cause he  offered  them  relief.  He  was  in  the  wrong  as  to  both. 
The  error  into  which  he  fell  about  the  Dissenters  was  very 
natural.  But  the  confidence  which  he  placed  in  the  loyal 
assurances  of  the  High  Church  party,  was  the  most  ex- 
quisitely ludicrous  proof  of  folly  that  a politician  ever  gave. 


128  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

Only  imagine  a man  acting  for  one  single  day  on  the 
supposition  that  all  his  neighbors  believe  all  that  they  pro- 
fess, and  act  up  to  all  that  they  believe.  Imagine  a man 
acting  on  the  supposition  that  he  may  safely  offer  the  dead- 
liest injuries  and  insults  to  everybody  who  says  that  revenge 
is  sinful ; or  that  lie  may  safely  intrust  all  his  property  with- 
out security  to  any  person  who  says  that  it  is  wrong  to  steal. 
Such  a character  would  be  too  absurd  for  the  wildest  farce. 
Yet  the  folly  of  James  did  not  stop  short  of  this  incredible 
extent.  Because  the  clergy  had  declared  that  resistance  to 
oppression  was  in  no  case  lawful,  he  conceived  that  he  might 
oppress  them  exactly  as  much  as  he  chose,  without  the  small- 
est danger  of  resistance.  He  quite  forgot  that,  when  they 
magnified  the  royal  prerogative,  the  prerogative  was  exerted 
on  their  side,  that,  when  they  preached  endurance,  they  had 
nothing  to  endure,  that,  when  they  declared  it  unlawful  to 
resist  evil,  none  but  Whigs  and  Dissenters  suffered  any  evil. 
It  had  never  occurred  to  him  that  a man  feels  the  calamities 
of  his  enemies  with  one  sort  of  sensibility,  and  his  own  with 
quite  a different  sort.  It  had  never  occurred  to  him  as  pos- 
sible that  a reverend  divine  might  think  it  the  duty  of 
Baxter  and  Bunyan  to  bear  insults  and  to  lie  in  dungeons 
without  murmuring,  and  yet,  when  he  saw  the  smallest 
chance  that  his  own  prebend  might  be  transferred  to  some 
sly  Father  from  Italy  or  Flanders,  might  begin  to  discover 
much  matter  for  useful  meditation  in  the  texts  touching 
Ehud’s  knife  and  Jael’s  hammer.  His  majesty  was  not 
aware,  it  should  seem,  that  people  do  sometimes  reconsider 
their  opinions  ; and  that  nothing  more  disposes  a man  to  re- 
consider his  opinions  than  a suspicion,  that,  if  he  adheres  to 
them,  he  is  very  likely  to  be  a beggar  or  a martyr.  Y et  it 
seems  strange  that  these  truths  should  have  escaped  the 
royal  mind.  Those  Churchmen  who  had  signed  the  Oxford 
Declaration  in  favor  of  passive  obedience  had  also  signed 
the  thirty-nine  Articles.  And  yet  the  very  man  who  con- 
fidently expected  that,  by  a little  coaxing  and  bullying,  he 
should  induce  them  to  renounce  the  Articles,  was  thunder- 
struck when  he  found  that  they  were  disposed  to  soften 
down  the  doctrines  of  the  Declaration.  Nor  did  it  neces- 
sarily follow  that,  even  if  the  theory  of  the  Tories  had  under- 
gone no  modification,  their  practice  would  coincide  with 
their  theory.  It  might,  one  should  think,  have  crossed  the 
mind  of  a man  of  fifty,  who  had  seen  a great  deal  of  the 
world,  that  people  sometimes  do  what  they  think  wrong. 


SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


129 


Though  a prelate  might  hold  that  Paul  directs  us  to  obey 
even  a Nero,  it  might  not  on  that  account  be  perfectly  safe 
to  treat  the  Right  Reverend  Father  in  God  after  the  fashion 
of  Nero,  in  the  hope  that  he  would  continue  to  obey  on  the 
principles  of  Paul.  The  king  indeed  had  only  to  look  at 
home.  He  was  at  least  as  much  attached  to  the  Catholic 
Church  as  any  Tory  gentleman  or  clergyman  could  be  to  the 
Church  of  England.  Adultery  was  at  least  as  clearly  and 
strongly  condemned  by  his  church  as  resistance  by  the 
Church  of  England.  Yet  his  priests  could  not  keep  him 
from  Arabella  Sedley.  While  he  was  risking  his  crown  for 
the  sake  of  his  soul,  he  was  risking  his  soul  for  the  sake  of 
an  ugly,  dirty  mistress.  There  is  something  delightfully 
grotesque  in  the  spectacle  of  a man  who,  while  living  in  the 
habitual  violation  of  his  own  known  duties,  is  unable  to  be- 
lieve that  any  temptation  can  draw  any  other  person  aside 
from  the  path  of  virtue. 

James  was  disappointed  in  all  his  calculations.  His 
hope  was  that  (lie  Tories  would  follow  their  principles,  and 
that  the  Non -conformists  would  follow  their  interests. 
Exactly  the  reverse  took  place.  The  great  body  of  the 
Tories  sacrificed  the  principle  of  non-resistance  to  their  in- 
terests; the  great  body  of  Non-conformists  rejected  the  de- 
lusive offers  of  the  King,  and  stood  firmly  by  their  principle^. 
The  two  pa  ties  whose  strife  had  convulsed  the  empire  dur- 
ing half  a ct  ltury  were  united  for  a moment ; and  all  the 
vast  royal  p nver  which  three  years  before  had  seemed  im- 
movably fix  ;d  vanished  at  once  like  chaff  in  a hurricane. 

The  very  great  length  to  which  this  article  has  already 
been  extended  makes  it  impossible  for  us  to  discuss,  as  we 
had  meant  to  do,  the  characters  and  conduct  of  the  leading 
English  statesmen  at  this  crisis.  But  we  must  offer  a few 
remarks  on  the  spirit  and  tendency  of  the  Revolution  of  1688. 

The  editor  of  this  volume  quotes  the  Declaration  of 
Right,  and  tells  us  that,  by  looking  at  it,  we  may  “ judge 
at  a glance  whether,  the  authors  of  the  Revolution  achieved 
all  they  might  and  ought,  in  their  position,  to  have  achieved  ; 
whether  the  Commons  of  England  did  their  duty  to  their 
constituents,  their  country,  posterity,  and  universal  free- 
dom.” We  are  at  a loss  to  imagine  how  he  can  have  read 
and  transcribed  the  Declaration  of  Right,  and  yet  have  so 
utterly  misconceived  its  nature.  That  famous  document  is, 
as  its  very  name  imports,  declaratory,  and  not  remedial. 
It  was  never  meant  to  be  a measure  of  reform.  It  neither 
Vol.  II.— 9. 


130  Macaulay’s  MiscRtUANRotrs  WRiTmas. 

contained,  nor  was  designed  to  contain,  any  allusion  to  those 
innovations  which  the  authors  of  the  Revolution  considered 
as  desirable,  and  which  they  speedily  proceeded  to  make. 
The  declaration  was  merely  a recital  of  certain  old  and 
wholesome  laws  which  had  been  violated  by  the  Stuarts, 
and  a solemn  protest  against  the  validity  of  any  precedent 
which  might  be  set  up  in  opposition  to  those  laws.  The 
words  run  thus  : “ They  do  claim,  demand,  and  insist  upon 
all  and  singular  the  premises  as  their  undoubted  rights  and 
liberties.”  Before  a man  begins  to  make  improvements  on 
his  estate,  he  must  know  its  boundaries.  Before  a legis- 
lature sits  down  to  reform  a constitution,  it  is  fit  to  ascer- 
tain what  that  constitution  really  is.  This  is  all  that  the 
Declaration  was  intended  to  do  ; and  to  quarrel  with  it  be- 
cause it  did  not  directly  introduce  any  beneficial  changes  is 
to  quarrel  with  meat  for  not  being  fuel. 

The  principle  on  which  the  authors  of  the  Revolution 
acted  cannot  be  mistaken.  They  were  perfectly  aware  that 
the  English  institutions  stood  in  need  of  reform.  But  they 
also  knew  that  an  important  point  was  gained  if  they  could 
settle  once  for  all,  by  a solemn  compact,  the  matters  which 
had,  during  several  generations,  been  in  controversy  be- 
tween the  Parliament  and  the  Crown.  They  therefore  most 
judiciously  abstained  from  mixing  up  the  irritating  and  per- 
plexing question  of  what  ought  to  be  the  law  with  the  plain 
question  of  what  was  the  law.  As  to  the  claims  set  forth  in 
the  Declaration  of  Right,  there  was  little  room  for  debate. 
Whigs  and  Tories  were  generally  agreed  as  to  the  ille- 
gality of  the  dispensing  power  and  of  taxation  imposed  by 
the  royal  prerogative.  The  articles  were  therefore  adjusted 
in  a very  few  days.  But  if  the  Parliament  had  determined 
to  revise  the  whole  constitution,  and  to  provide  new  securi- 
ties against  misgovernment,  before  proclaiming  the  new 
sovereigns,  months  would  have  been  lost  in  disputes.  The 
coalition  which  had  delivered  the  country  would  have  been 
instantly  dissolved.  The  Whigs  would  have  quarrelled  with 
the  Tories,  the  Lords  with  the  Commons,  the  Church  with 
the  Dissenters ; and  all  this  storm  of  conflicting  interests 
and  conflicting  theories  would  have  been  raging  round  a 
vacant  throne.  In  the  mean  time,  the  greatest  power  on 
the  Continent  was  attacking  our  allies,  and  meditating  a 
descent  on  our  own  territories.  Dundee  was  preparing  to 
raise  the  Highlands.  The  authority  of  James  was  still  owned 
by  the  Irish.  If  the  authors  of  the  Revolution  had  been  fools 


STB  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


131 


enough  to  take  this  course,  we  have  little  doubt  that  Lux- 
embourg would  have  been  upon  them  in  the  midst  of  their 
constitution-making.  They  might  probably  have  been  in- 
terrupted in  a debate  on  Filmer’s  and  Sydney’s  theories  of 
government  by  the  entrance  of  the  musqueteers  of  Lewis’s 
household,  and  have  been  marched  off,  two  and  two,  to 
frame  imaginary  monarchies  and  commonwealths  in  the 
Tower.  We  have  had  in  our  own  time  abundant  experi- 
ence of  the  effects  of  such  folly.  We  have  seen  nation  after 
nation  enslaved,  because  the  friends  of  liberty  wasted  in 
discussions  upon  abstract  questions  the  time  which  ought  to 
have  been  employed  in  preparing  for  vigorous  national  de- 
fence. This  editor,  apparently,  would  have  had  the  English 
Revolution  in  1688  end  as  the  Revolutions  of  Spain  and 
Naples  ended  in  our  days.  Thank  God,  our  deliverers 
were  men  of  a very  different  order  from  the  Spanish  and 
Neapolitan  legislators.  They  might,  on  many  subjects,  hold 
opinions  which,  in  the  nineteenth  century,  would  not  be 
considered  as  liberal.  But  they  were  not  dreaming  pedants. 
They  were  statesmen  accustomed  to  the  management  of 
great  affairs.  Their  plans  of  reform  were  not  so  extensive 
as  those  of  the  lawgivers  of  Cadiz  ; but  what  they  planned, 
that  they  effected  ; and  what  they  effected,  that  they  main- 
tained against  the  fiercest  hostility  at  home  and  abroad. 

Their  first  object  was  to  seat  William  on  the  throne; 
and  they  were  right.  W e say  this  without  any  reference  to 
the  eminent  personal  qualities  of  William,  or  to  the  follies 
and  crimes  of  James.  If  the  two  princes  had  interchanged 
characters,  our  opinion  would  still  have  been  the  same.  It 
was  even  more  necessary  to  England  at  that  time  that  her 
king  should  be  a usurper  than  that  he  should  be  a hero. 
There  could  be  no  security  for  good  government  without  a 
change  of  dynasty.  The  reverence  for  hereditary  right  and 
the  doctrine  of  passive  obedience  had  taken  such  a hold  on 
the  minds  of  the  Tories,  that,  if  James  had  been  restored  to 
power  on  any  conditions,  their  attachment  to  him  would  in 
all  probability  have  revived,  as  the  indignation  which  recent 
oppression  had  produced  faded  from  their  minds.  It  had 
become  indispensable  to  have  a sovereign  whose  title  to  his 
throne  was  strictly  bound  up  with  the  title  of  the  nation  to 
its  liberties.  In  the  compact  between  the  Prince  of  Orange 
and  the  Convention,  there  was  one  most  important  article 
which,  though  not  expressed,  was  perfectly  understood  by 
both  parties^  and  for  the  performance  of  which  the  country 


1S2 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


had  securities  far  better  than  all  the  engagements  that 
Charles  the  First  or  Ferdinand  the  Seventh  ever  took  in 
the  day  of  their  weakness,  and  broke  in  the  day  of  their 
power.  The  .article  to  which  we  allude  was  this,  that  Wil- 
liam would  in  all  things  conform  himself  to  what  should 
appear  to  be  the  fixed  and  deliberate  sense  of  his  Parlia- 
ment. The  security  for  the  performance  was  this,  that  he 
had  no  claim  to  the  throne  except  the  choice  of  Parliament, 
and  no  means  of  maintaining  himself  on  the  throne  but  the 
support  of  Parliament.  All  the  great  and  inestimable  re- 
forms which  speedily  followed  the  Revolution  were  implied 
in  those  simple  words  : “ The  Lords,  Spiritual  and  Tem- 
poral, and  Commons,  assembled  at  Westminster,  do  resolve 
that  William  and  Mary,  Prince  and  Princess  of  Orange,  be, 
and  be  declared  King  and  Queen  of  England.” 

And  what  were  the  reforms  of  which  we  speak?  We 
will  shortly  recount  some  which  we  think  the  most  impor- 
tant ; and  we  will  then  leave  our  readers  to  judge  whether 
those  who  consider  the  Revolution  as  a mere  change  of 
dynasty,  beneficial  to  a few  aristocrats,  but  useless  to  the 
body  of  the  people,  or  those  who  consider  it  as  a happy  era 
in  the  history  of  the  British  nation  and  of  the  human  species, 
have  judged  more  correctly  of  its  nature. 

Foremost  in  the  list  of  the  benefits  which  our  country 
owes  to  the  Revolution  we  place  the  Toleration  Act.  It  is 
true  that  this  measure  fell  short  of  the  wishes  of  the  lead- 
ing Whigs.  It  is  true  also  that,  where  Catholics  were  con- 
cerned, even  the  most  enlightened  of  the  leading  Whigs  held 
opinions  by  no  means  so  liberal  as  those  which  are  happily 
common  at  the  present  day.  Those  distinguished  states- 
men did,  however,  make  a noble,  and  in  some  respects,  a 
successful  struggle  for  the  rights  of  conscience.  Their  wish 
was  to  bring  the  great  body  of  the  Protestant  Dissenters 
within  the  pale  of  the  Church  by  judicious  alterations  in 
the  Liturgy  and  the  Articles,  and  to  grant  to  those  who  still 
remained  without  that  pale  the  most  ample  toleration. 
They  framed  a plan  of  comprehension  which  would  have 
satisfied  a great  majority  of  the  seceders  ; and  they  pro- 
posed the  complete  abolition  of  that  absurd  and  odious  test 
which,  after  having  been,  during  a century  and  a half,  a 
scandal  to  the  pious  and  a laughing-stock  to  the  profane, 
was  at  length  removed  in  our  own  time.  The  immense  power 
of  the  Clergy  and  of  the  Tory  gentry  frustrated  these  excel- 
lent designs.  The  Whigs,  however,  did  much.  They  su# 


SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


133 


eeeded  in  obtaining  a law  in  the  provisions  of  which  a phi- 
losopher will  doubtless  find  much  to  condemn,  but  which  had 
the  practical  effect  of  enabling  almost  every  Protestant 
Nonconformist  to  follow  the  dictates  of  his  own  conscience 
without  molestation.  Scarcely  a law  in  the  statute-book  is 
theoretically  more  objectionable  than  the  Toleration  Act. 
But  we  question  whether  in  the  whole  of  that  vast  mass  of 
legislation,  from  the  Great  Charter  downwards,  there  be  a 
single  law  which  has  so  much  diminished  the  sum  of  human 
suffering,  which  has  done  so  much  to  allay  bad  passions, 
which  has  put  an  end  to  so  much  petty  tyranny  and  vexa- 
tion, which  has  brought  gladness,  peace,  and  a sense  of 
security  to  so  many  private  dwellings. 

The  second  of  those  great  reforms  which  the  Revolution 
produced  was  the  final  establishment  of  the  Presbyterian 
Kirk  in  Scotland.  We  shall  not  now  inquire  whether  the 
Episcopal  or  the  Calvinistic  form  of  Church  government  be 
more  agreeable  to  primitive  practice.  Far  be  it  from  us  to 
disturb  with  our  doubts  the  repose  of  any  Oxonian  Bachelor 
of  Divinity  who  conceives  that  the  English  prelates  with 
their  baronies  and  palaces,  their  purple  and  their  fine  linen, 
their  mitred  carriages  and  their  sumptuous  tables,  are  the 
true  successors  of  those  ancient  bishops  who  lived  by  catch- 
ing fish  and  mending  tents.  AVe  say  only  that,  the  Scotch, 
doubtless  from  their  own  inveterate  stupidity  and  malice, 
were  not  Episcopalians  ; that  they  could  not  be  made  Epis- 
copalians ; that  the  whole  power  of  government  had  been 
in  vain  employed  for  the  purpose  of  converting  them ; that 
the  fullest  instruction  on  the  mysterious  questions  of  the 
Apostolical  succession  and  the  imposition  of  hands  had  been 
imparted  by  the  very  logical  process  of  putting  the  legs  of 
the  students  into  wooden  boots,  and  driving  two  or  more 
wedges  between  their  knees ; that  a course  of  divinity  lec- 
tures, of  the  most  edifying  kind  had  been  given  in  the  grass- 
market  of  Edinburgh  ; yet  that,  m spite  of  all  the  exertions  of 
those  great  theological  professors,  Lauderdale  and  Dundee, 
the  Covenanters  were  as  obstinate  as  eA~er.  To  the  contest  be- 
tween the  Scotch  nation  and  the  Anglican  Church  are  to  be 
ascribed  near  thirty  years  of  the  most  frightful  misgovern- 
ment  ever  seen  in  any  part  of  Great  Britain.  If  the  Revo- 
lution had  produced  no  other  effect  than  that  of  freeing  the 
Scotch  from  the  yoke  of  an  establishment  which  they  de- 
tested, and  giving  them  one  to  which  they  were  attached,  it 
Would  have  been  ope  of  the  happiest  events  in  our  history* 


184  MACAULAY  \4  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

The  third  great  benefit  which  the  country  derived  from 
the  Revolution  was  the  alteration  in  the  mode  of  granting  the 
supplies.  It  had  been  the  practice  to  settle  on  every  prince, 
at  the  commencement  of  his  reign,  the  produce  of  certain 
taxes  which,  it  was  supposed,  would  yield  a sum  sufficient 
to  defray  the  ordinary  expenses  of  government.  The  dis- 
tribution of  the  revenue  was  left  wholly  to  the  sovei  c*gn. 
He  might  be  forced  by  a war,  or  by  his  own  profusion,  to  ask 
for  an  extraordinary  grant.  But,  if  his  policy  were  econom- 
ical and  pacific,  he  might  reign  many  years  without  once 
being  under  the  necessity  of  summoning  his  Parliament,  or 
of  taking  their  advice  when  he  had  summoned  them.  This 
was  not  all.  The  natural  tendency  of  every  society  in 
which  property  enjoys  tolerable  security  is  to  increase  in 
wealth.  With  the  national  wealth,  the  produce  of  the  cus- 
toms, of  the  excise,  and  of  the  post-office,  would  of  course 
increase;  and  thus  it  might  well  happen  that  taxes  which, 
at  the  beginning  of  a long  reign,  were  barely  sufficient  to 
support  a frugal  government  in  time  of  peace,  might,  be- 
fore the  end  of  that  reign,  enable  the  sovereign  to  imitate 
the  extravagance  of  Nero  or  Heliogabalus,  to  raise  great 
armies,  to  carry  on  expensive  wars.  Something  of  this 
sort  had  actually  happened  under  Charles  the  Second, 
though  his  reign,  reckoned  from  the  Restoration,  lasted  only 
twenty-five  years.  His  first  Parliament  settled  on  him 
taxes  estimated  to  produce  twelve  thousand  pounds  a year. 
This  they  thought  sufficient,  as  they  allowed  nothing  for  a 
standing  army  in  time  of  peace.  At  the  time  of  Charles’s 
death,  the  annual  produce  of  these  taxes  considerably  ex- 
ceeded a million  and  a half ; and  the  King  who,  during  the 
years  which  immediately  followed  his  accession,  was  perpet- 
ually in  distress,  and  perpetually  asking  his  Parliaments  for 
money,  was  at  last  able  to  keep  a body  of  regular  troops 
without  any  assistance  from  the  House  of  Commons.  If 
his  reign  had  been  as  long  as  that  of  George  the  Third,  he 
would  probably,  before  the  close  of  it,  have  been  in  the  an- 
nual receipt  of  several  millions  over  and  above  what  the 
ordinary  expenses  of  civil  government  required ; and  of 
those  millions  he  would  have  been  as  absolutely  master  as 
the  King  now  is  of  the  sum  allotted  for  his  privy-purse.  He 
might  have  spent  them  m luxury,  in  corruption,  in  paying 
troops  to  overawe  his  people,  ov  in  carrying  into  effect  wild 
schemes  of  foreign  conquest.  The  authors  of  the  Revolu- 
tion applied  a remedy  to  this  great  abuse.  They  settled  on 


6IR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH* 


185 


the  King,  not  the  fluctuating  produce  of  certain  fixed  taxes, 
but  a fixed  sum  sufficient  for  the  support  of  his  own  royal 
state.  They  established  it  as  a rule  that  all  the  expenses  of 
the  army,  the  navy,  and  the  ordnance,  should  be  brought  an- 
nually under  the  review  of  the  House  of  Commons,  and  that 
every  sum  voted  should  be  applied  to  the  service  specified 
in  the  vote.  The  direct  effect  of  this  change  was  impor- 
tant. The  indirect  effect  has  been  more  important  still. 
From  that  time  the  House  of  Commons  has  been  really  the 
paramount  power  in  the  state.  It  has,  in  truth,  appointed 
and  removed  ministers,  declared  war,  and  concluded  peace. 
No  combination  of  the  King  and  the  Lords  has  ever  been 
able  to  effect  anything  against  The  Lower  House,  backed 
by  its  constituents.  Three  or  four  times,  indeed,  the  sov- 
ereign has  been  able  to  break  the  force  of  an  opposition  by 
dissolving  the  Parliament.  But  if  that  experiment  should 
fail,  if  the  people  should  be  of  the  same  mind  with  their 
representatives,  he  would  clearly  have  no  course  left  but  to 
yield,  to  abdicate,  or  to  fight. 

The  next  great  blessing  which  we  owe  to  the  Revolution 
is  the  purification  of  the  administration  of  justice  in  political 
cases.  Of  the  importance  of  this  change  no  person  can  judge 
who  is  not  well  acquainted  with  the  earlier  volumes  of  the 
State  Trials.  These  volumes  are,  we  do  not  hesitate  to  say, 
the  most  frightful  record  of  baseness  and  depravity  that  is 
extant  in  the  world.  Our  hatred  is  altogether  turned  away 
from  the  crimes  and  the  criminals,  and  directed  against  the 
law  and  its  ministers.  We  see  villanies  as  black  as  ever 
were  imputed  to  any  prisoner  at  any  bar  daily  committed 
on  the  bench  and  in  the  jury-box.  The  worst  of  the  bad 
acts  which  brought  discredit  on  the  old  Parliaments  of 
France,  the  condemn ation  of  Lally,  for  example,  or  even 
that  of  Calas,  may  seem  praiseworthy  when  compared  with 
the  atrocities  which  follow  each  other  in  endless  succession 
as  we  turn  over  that  hugeohronicle  of  the  shame  of  England. 
The  magistrates  of  Paris  and  Toulouse  were  blinded  by 
prejudice,  passion,  or  bigc'ry.  But  the  abandoned  judges 
of  our  own  country  commuted  murder  with  their  eyes  open. 
The  cause  of  this  is  plain*,  In  France  there  was  no  consti- 
tutional opposition.  If  g man  held  language  offensive  to 
the  government,  he  was  at  once  sent  to  the  Bastile  or  to  Vin- 
cennes. But  in  England,  at  least  after  the  days  of  the  Long 
Parliament,  the  King  could  not,  by  a mere  act  of  his  pre- 
rogative, rid  himself  of  a troublesome  politician.  He  waa 


136  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

forced  to  remove  those  who  thwarted  him  by  means  of 
perjured  witnesses,  packed  juries,  and  corrupt,  hard-hearted, 
brow-beating  judges.  The  Opposition  naturally  retaliated  * 
■whenever  they  had  the  upper  hand.  Every  time  that  the 
power  passed  from  one  party  to  the  other,  there  was  a pro- 
scription and  a massacre,  thinly  disguised  unde]’  the  forms 
of  judicial  procedure.  The  tribunals  ought  to  be  sacred 
places  of  refuge,  where,  in  all  the  vicissitudes  of  public 
affairs,  the  innocent  of  all  parties  may  find  shelter.  They 
were,  before  the  Revolution,  an  unclean  public  shambles,  to 
which  each  party  in  its  turn  dragged  its  opponents,  and 
where  each  found  the  same  venal  and  ferocious  butchers 
waiting  for  its  custom.  Papist  or  Protestant,  Tory  or 
Whig,  Priest  or  Alderman,  all  was  one  to  those  greedy  and 
savage  natures,  provided  only  there  was  money  to  earn,  and 
blood  to  shed.  „ 

Of  course,  these  worthless  judges  soon  created  around 
them,  as  was  natural,  a breed  of  informers  more  wicked,  if 
possible,  than  themselves.  The  trial  by  jury  afforded  little 
or  no  protection  to  the  innocent.  The  juries  were  nomi- 
nated by  the  sheriffs.  The  sheriffs  were  in  most  parts  of 
England  nominated  by  the  Crown.  In  London,  the  great 
scene  of  political  contention,  those  officers  were  chosen  by 
the  people.  The  fiercest  parliamentary  election  of  our  time 
will  give  but  a faint  notion  of  the  storm  which  raged  in 
the  city  on  the  day  when  two  infuriated  parties,  each  bear- 
ing its  badge,  met  to  select  the  men  in  whose  hands  were  to 
be  the  issues  of  life  and  death  for  the  coming  year.  On 
that  day,  nobles  of  the  highest  descent  did  not  think  it  be- 
neath them  to  canvass  and  marshal  the  lively,  to  head  the 
procession,  and  to  watch  the  poll.  On  that  day,  the  great 
chiefs  of  parties  waited  in  an  agony  of  suspense  for  the 
messenger  who  was  to  bring  from  Guildhall  the  news 
whether  their  lives  and  estates  were,  for  the  next  twelve 
months,  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  a friend  or  of  a foe.  In  1681, 
Whig  sheriffs  were  chosen ; and  Shaftesbury  defied  the 
whole  power  of  the  government.  In  1682  the  sheriffs  were 
Tories.  Shaftesbury  fled  to  Holland.  The  other  chiefs  of 
the  party  broke  up  their  councils,  and  retired  in  haste  to 
their  country-seats.  Sydney  on  the  scaffold  told  those 
sheriffs  that  his  blood  was  on  their  heads.  Neither  of  them 
could  deny  the  charge ; and  one  of  them  wept  with  shame 
and  remorse. 

Thus  every  man  who  then  meddled  with  public  affairs, 


sm  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


137 


took  Ms  life  in  Ms  hand.  The  consequence  was  that  men  of 
gentle  natures  stood  aloof  from  contests  in  which  they 
could  not  engage  without  hazarding  their  own  necks  and 
the  fortunes  of  their  children.  This  was  the  course  adopted 
by  Sir  William  Temple,  by  Evelyn,  and  by  many  otner  men 
who  were,  in  every  respect,  admirably  qualified  to  serve  the 
State.  On  the  other  hand,  those  resolute  and  enterprising 
men  who  put  their  heads  and  lands  to  hazard  in  the  game 
of  politics  naturally  acquired,  from  the  habit  of  playing  for 
so  deep  a stake,  a reckless  and  desperate  turn  of  mind.  It 
was,  we  seriously  believe,  as  safe  to  be  a highwayman  as  to 
be  a distinguished  leader  of  Opposition.  This  may  serve  to 
explain,  and  in  some  degree  to  excuse,  the  violence  with 
which  the  factions  of  that  age  are  justly  reproached.  They 
were  fighting,  not  merely  for  office,  but  for  life.  If  they 
reposed  for  a moment  from  the  work  of  agitation,  if  they 
suffered  the  public  excitement  to  flag,  they  were  lost  men. 
Hume,  in  describing  this  state  of  things,  has  employed  an 
image  which  seems  hardly  to  suit  the  general  simplicity  of 
his  style,  but  which  is  by  no  means  too  strong  for  the  occa- 
sion. “ Thus,”  says  he,  “ the  two  parties,  actuated  by 
mutual  rage,  but  cooped  up  within  the  narrow  limits  of  the 
law,  levelled  with  poisoned  daggers  the  most  deadly  blows 
against  each  other’s  breast,  and  buried  in  their  factious 
divisions  all  regard  to  truth,  honor,  and  humanity.” 

From  this  terrible  evil  the  Revolution  set  us  free.  The 
law  which  secured  to  the  judges  their  seats  during  life  or  good 
behavior  did  something.  The  law  subsequently  passed  for 
regulating  trials  in  cases  of  treason  did  much  more.  The 
provisions  of  that  law  show,  indeed,  very  little  legislative 
skill.  It  is  not  framed  on  the  principle  of  securing  the 
innocent,  but  on  the  principle  of  giving  a great  chance  of 
escape  to  the  accused,  whether  innocent  or  guilty.  This, 
however,  is  decidedly  a fault  on  the  right  side.  The.  evil 
produced  by  the  occasional  escape  of  a bad  citizen  is  not  to 
be  compared  with  the  evils  of  that  Reign  of  Terror,  for 
such  it  was,  which  .preceded  the  Revolution.  Since  the 
passing  of  this  law  scarcely  one  single  person  has  suffered 
death  in  England  as  a traitor,  who  had  not  been  convicted 
on  overwhelming  evidence,  to  the  satisfaction  of  all  parties, 
of  the  highest  crime  against  the  State.  Attempts  have  been 
made  in  times  of  great  excitement,  to  bring  in  persons  guilty 
of  high  treason  for  acts  which,  though  sometimes  highly 
blamable,  did  not  necessarily  imply  a "design  falling  within 


138 


MACAULAY  S MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


the  legal  definition  of  treason.  All  these  attempts  have 
failed.  During  a hundred  and  forty  years  no  statesman, 
while  engaged  in  constitutional  opposition  to  a government, 
lias  had  the  axe  before  his  eyes.  The  smallest  minorities, 
struggling  against  the  most  powerful  majorities,  in  the  most 
agitated  times,  have  felt  themselves  perfectly  secure.  Pul- 
teney  and  Fox  were  the  two  most  distinguished  leaders  of 
Opposition  since  the  Revolution.  Both  were  personally 
obnoxious  to  the  Court.  But  the  utmost  harm  that  the  ut- 
most anger  of  the  Court  could  do  to  them  was  to  strike  off 
the  “ Right  Honorable  ” from  before  their  names. 

But  of  all  the  reforms  produced  by  the  Revolution,  per- 
haps the  most  important  was  the  full  establishment  of  the 
liberty  of  unlicensed  printing.  The  Censorship  which, 
under  some  form  or  other,  had  existed,  with  rare  and  short 
intermissions,  under  every  government,  monarchical  or  re- 
publican, from  the  time  of  Henry  the  Eighth  downwards, 
expired,  and  has  never  since  been  renewed. 

We  are  aware  that  the  great  improvements  which  we 
have  recapitulated  were,  in  many  respects,  imperfectly 
arid  unskilfully  executed.  The  authors  of  those  improve- 
ments sometimes,  while  they  removed  or  mitigated  a great 
practical  evil,  continued  to  recognize  the  erroneous  prin- 
ciple from  which  that  evil  had  sprung.  Sometimes  when 
they  had  adopted  a sound  principle,  they  shrank  from  fol- 
lowing it  to  all  the  conclusions  to  which  it  would  have  led 
them.  Sometimes  they  failed  to  perceive  that  the  remedies 
which  they  applied  to  one  disease  of  the  State  were  certain 
to  generate  another  disease,  and  to  render  another  remedy 
necessary.  Their  knowledge  was  inferior  to  ours : nor  were 
they  always  able  to  act  up  to  their  knowledge.  The  press- 
ure of  circumstances,  the  necessity  of  compromising  differ- 
ences of  opinion,  the  power  and  violence  of  the  party  which 
was  altogether  hostile  to  the  new  settlement,  must  be  taken 
into  the  account.  When  these  things  are  fairly  weighed, 
there  will,  we  think,  be  little  difference  of  opinion  among 
liberal  and  right-minded  men  as  to  the  real  value  of  what 
the  great  events  of  1688  did  for  this  country. 

We  have  recounted  what  appear  to  us  the  most  impor- 
tant of  those  changes  which  the  Revolution  produced  in 
our  laws.  The  changes  which  it  produced  in  our  laws, 
however,  were  not  more  important  than  the  change  which 
it  indirectly  produced  in  the  public  mind.  The  Whig  partr 
had  during  seventy  years,  an  almost  uninterrupted  posses* 


SlU  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


139 


sion  of  power.  It  liad  always  been  the  fundamental  doc- 
trine of  that  party,  that  power  is  a trust  for  the  people ; 
that  it  is  given  to  magistrates,  not  for  their  own,  but  for  the 
public  advantage  ; that,  where  it  is  abused  by  magistrates, 
even  by  the  highest  of  all,  it  may  lawfully  be  withdrawn. 
It  is  perfectly  true,  that  the  Whigs  were  not  more  exempt 
than  other  men  from  the  Alices  and  infirmities  of  our  nature, 
and  that,  when  they  had  power,  they  sometimes  abused  it 
But  still  they  stood  firm  to  their  theory.  That  theory  was 
the  badge  of  their  party.  It  was  something  more.  It  Avas 
the  foundation  on  Avhieh  rested  the  poAver  of  the  houses  of 
Nassau  and  BrunsAvick.  Thus,  there  was  a government 
interested  in  propagating  a class  of  opinions  Avhieh  most 
governments  are  interested  in  discouraging,  a government 
which  looked  with  complacency  on  all  speculations  faAmrable 
to  public  liberty,  and  with  extreme  aversion  on  all  specula- 
tions favorable  to  arbitrary  power.  There  was  a King  avIio 
decidedly  preferred  a republican  to  a believer  in  the  divine 
right  of  kings  ; who  considered  every  attempt  to  exalt  his 
prerogative  as  an  attack  on  his  title  ; and  who  reserved  all 
his  favors  for  those  who  declaimed  on  the  natural  equality 
of  men,  and  the  popular  origin  of  goAmrnmcnt.  This  was 
the  state  of  tilings  from  the  Rev'olution  till  the  death  of 
George  the  Second.  The  effect  was  Avhat  might  have  been 
expected.  Even  in  that  profession  which  has  generally 
been  most  disposed  to  magnify  the  prerogative,  a great 
change  took  place.  Bishopric  after  bishopric,  and  deanery 
after  deanery  were  bestoAved  on  Whigs  and  Latitudinarians, 
The  consequence  was  that  Whiggism  and  Latitudinarianism 
Avere  professed  by  the  ablest  and  most  aspiring  churchmen. 

Hume  complained  bitterly  of  this  at  the  close  of  his  his- 
tory. “ The  Whig  party,”  says  he,  “ for  a course  of  near 
seventy  years,  has  almost  without  interruption  enjoyed  the 
whole  authority  of  government,  and  no  honors  or  offices 
could  be  obtained  but  by  their  countenance  and  protection. 
But  this  event,  which  in  some  particulars  has  been  advan- 
tageous to  the  state,  has  proved  destructive  to  the  truth  of 
history,  and  has  established  many  gross  falsehoods,  which 
it  is  unaccountable  hoAV  any  civilized  nation  could  have  em- 
braced, with  regard  to  its  domestic  occurrences.  Composi- 
tions the  most  despicable,  both  for  style  and  matter,” — in  a 
note  he  instances  the  Avritings  of  Locke,  Sydney,  Hoadley, 
and  Rapin, — “ have-  been  extolled  and  propagated  and  read 
if  they  had  equalled  the  most  celebrated  remains  of  an* 


140  Macaulay's  miscellaneous  whitings. 

tiquity.  And  forgetting  tkat  a regard  to  liberty,  though  a 
laudable  passion,  ought  commonly  to  be  subservient  to  a 
reverence  for  established  government,  the  prevailing  faction 
has  celebrated  only  the  partisans  of  the  former.”  We  will 
not  here  enter  into  an  argument  about  the  merit  of  Rapin’s 
History  or  Locke’s  political  speculations.  We  call  Hume 
merely  as  evidence  to  a fact  well  known  to  all  reading  men, 
that  the  literature  patronized  by  the  English  Court  and  the 
English  ministry,  during  the  first  half  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, was  of  that  kind  which  courtiers  and  ministers  gener- 
ally do  all  in  their  power  to  discountenance,  and  tended  to 
inspire  zeal  for  the  liberties  of  the  people  rather  than  re- 
spect for  the  authority  of  the  government. 

There  wras  still  a very  strong  Tory  party  in  England. 
But  that  party  was  in  opposition.  Many  of  its  members 
still  held  the  doctrine  of  passive  obedience.  But  they  did 
not  admit  that  the  existing  dynasty  had  any  claim  to  such 
obedience.  They  condemned  resistance.  But  by  resistance 
they  meant  the  keeping  out  of  James  the  Third,  and  not 
the  turning  out  of  George  the  Second.  No  Radical  of  our 
times  could  grumble  more  at  the  expenses  of  the  royal 
household,  could  exert  himself  more  strenuously  to  reduce 
the  military  establishment,  could  oppose  with  more  earnest- 
ness every  proposition  for  arming  the  executive  with 
extraordinary  powers,  or  could  pour  more  unmitigated 
abuse  on  placemen  and  courtiers.  If  a writer  were  now,  in 
a massive  Dictionary,  to  define  a Pensioner  as  a traitor  ard 
a slave,  the  Excise  as  a hateful  tax,  the  Commissioners  of 
the  Excise  as  wretches,  if  he  were  to  write  a satire  full  of 
reflections  on  men  who  receive  “ the  price  of  boroughs  and 
of  souls,”  who  “ explain  their  country’s  dear-bought  rights 
away,”  or 

“ whom  pensions  can  incite 
To  vote  a patriot  black,  a courtier  white,” 

we  should  set  him  down  for  something  more  democratic 
than  a Whig.  Yet  this  was  the  language  which  Johnson, 
the  most  bigoted  of  Tories  and  High  Churchmen,  held  under 
the  administration  of  Walpole  and  Pelham. 

Thus  doctrines  favorable  to  public  liberty  were  incul- 
cated alike  by  those  wrho  were  in  power  and  by  those  who 
were  in  opposition.  It  was  by  means  of  these  doctrines 
alone  that  the  former  could  prove  that  they  had  a King  de 
jure.  The  servile  theories  of  the  latter  did  not  prevent 
them  from  offering  every  molestation  to  one  whom  they 


.TAMES  MACKINTOSH.  141 

considered  as  merely  a King  de  facto.  The  attachment  of 
one  party  to  the  House  of  Hanover,  of  the  other  to  that  of 
Stuart,  induced  both  to  talk  a language  much  more  favorable 
to  popular  rights  than  to  monarchical  power.  What  took 
place  at  the  first  representation  of  Cato  is  no  bad  illustration 
of  the  way  in  which  the  two  great  sections  of  the  commv- 
nity  almost  invariably  acted.  A play,  the  whole  merit  of 
which  consists  in  its  stately  rhetoric,  a rhetoric  sometimes 
not  unworthy  of  Lucan,  about  hating  tyrants  and  dying  for 
freedom,  is  brought  on  the  stage  in  a time  of  great  political 
excitement.  Both  parties  crowd  to  the  theatre.  Each  af- 
fects to  consider  every  line  as  a compliment  to  itself,  and  an 
attack  on  its  opponents.  The  curtain  falls  amidst  an  unani- 
mous roar  of  applause.  The  Whigs  of  the  Kit  Cat  embrace 
the  author,  and  assure  him  that  he  has  rendered  an  inestima- 
ble service  to  liberty.  The  Tory  secretary  of  state  presents 
a purse  to  the  chief  actor  for  defending  the  cause  of  liberty 
so  well.  The  history  of  that  night  was,  in  miniature,  the 
history  of  two  generations. 

We  well  know  how  much  sophistry  there  was  in  the  rea- 
sonings, and  how  much  exaggeration  in  the  declamations  of 
both  parties.  But  when  we  compare  the  state  in  which 
political  science  was  at  the  close  of  the  reign  of  George  the 
Second  with  the  state  in  which  it  had  been  when  James  the 
Second  came  to  the  throne,  it  is  impossible  not  to  admit 
that  a prodigious  improvement  had  taken  place.  We  are 
no  admirers  of  the  political  doctrines  laid  down  in  Black- 
stone’s  Commentaries.  But  if  we  consider  that  those  Com- 
mentaries were  read  with  great  applause  in  the  very  schools 
where,  seventy  or  eighty  years  before,  books  had  been  pub- 
licly  burned  by  order  of  the  University  of  Oxford  for  con- 
taining the  damnable  doctrine  that  the  English  monarchy  is 
limited  and  mixed,  we  cannot  deny  that  a salutary  change 
had  taken  place.  uThe  Jesuits,”  says  Pascal,  in  the  last  of 
his  incomparable  letters,  “ have  obtained  a Papal  decree, 
condemning  Galileo’s  doctrine  about  the  motion  of  the  earth. 
It  is  all  in  vain.  If  the  world  is  really  turning  round,  all 
mankind  together  will  not  be  able  to  keep  it  from  turning, 
or  to  keep  themselves  from  turning  with  it.”  The  decrees 
of  Oxford  were  as  ineffectual  to  stay  the  great  moral  and 
political  revolution  as  those  of  the  Vatican  to  stay  the  mo- 
tion of  our  globe.  That  learned  University  found  itself  not 
only  unable  to  keep  the  mass  from  moving,  but  unable  to 
keep  itself  from  moving  along  with  the  mass.  Nor  was  the 


142 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings* 


effect  of  the  discussions  and  speculations  of  tlat  period 
confined  to  our  own  country.  While  the  Jacobite  partj 
was  in  the  last  dotage  and  weakness  of  its  paralytic  old  age, 
the  political  philosophy  of  England  began  to  produce  a 
mighty  effect  on  France,  and,  through  France,  on  Europe. 

Here  another  vast  field  opens  itself  before  us.  But  tve 
must  resolutely  turn  away  from  it.  We  will  conclude  by 
advising  all  our  readers  to  study  Sir  James  Mackintosh’s 
valuable  Fragment,  and  by  expressing  our  hope  that  the^ 
will  soon  be  able  to  study  it  without  those  accompaniments 
which  have  hitherto  impeded  its  circulation. 


LORD  BACON.  * 

{Edinburgh  Revieiv,  July , 1837.) 

We  return  our  hearty  thanks  to  Mr.  Montagu  for  this 
truly  valuable  work.  From  the  opinions  which  he  expresses 
as  a biographer  we  often  dissent.  But  about  his  merit  as  a 
collector  of  the  materials  out  of  which  opinions  are  formed, 
there  can  be  no  dispute  ; and  we  readily  acknowledge  that 
we  are  in  a great  measure  indebted  to  his  minute  and  accu- 
rate researches  for  the  means  of  refuting  what  we  cannot 
but  consider  as  his  errors. 

The  labor  which  has  been  bestowed  on  this  volume  has 
been  a labor  of  love.  The  writer  is  evidently  enamored  of 
the  subject.  It  fills  his  heart.  It  constantly  overflows  from 
his  lips  and  his  pen.  Those  who  are  acquainted  with  the 
Courts  in  which  Mr.  Montagu  practises  with  so  much  ability 
and  success  well  know  how  often  lie  enlivens  the  discussion 
of  a point  of  lav/  by  citing  some  weighty  aphorisms,  01 
some  brilliant  illustration,  from  the  De  Augmentis  or  the 
Novum  Organum . The  Life  before  us  doubtless  owes  much 
of  its  value  to  the  honest  and  generous  enthusiasm  of  the 
writer.  This  feeling  has  stimulated  his  activity,  has  sus- 
tained his  perseverance,  has  called  forth  all  his  ingenuity  and 
eloquence : but,  on  the  other  hand,  we  must  frankly  say 
that  it  has,  to  a great  extent,  perverted  his  judgment. 

* The  works  of  Francis  Bacon , Lord  Chancellor  of  England . A new  Edition 

By  Basil  Montagu,  Esq.,  IS  volB.  8vo.  London  : 1825-1834. 


LORD  BACON. 


143 


We  are  by  no  means  without  sympathy  for  Mr.  Montagu 
even  in  wbat  we  consider  as  his  weakness.  There  is  scarcely 
any  delusion  which  has  a better  claim  to  be  indulgently 
treated  than  that  under  the  influence  of  which  a man  ascribes 
every  moral  excellence  to  those  who  have  left  imperishable 
monuments  of  their  genius.  The  causes  of  this  error  lie 
deep  in  the  inmost  recesses  of  human  nature.  We  are  all 
inclined  to  judge  of  others  as  we  find  them.  Our  estimate 
of  a character  always  depends  much  on  the  manner  in  which 
that  character  affects  our  own  interests  and  passions.  We 
find  it  difficult  to  think  well  of  those  by  whom  we  are 
thwarted  or  depressed ; and  we  are  ready  to  admit  every 
excuse  for  the  vices  of  those  who  are  useful  or  agreeable  to 
us.  This  is,  we  believe,  one  of  those  illusions  to  which  the 
whole  human  race  is  subject,  and  which  experience  and  re- 
flection can  only  partially  remove.  It  is,  in  the  phraseology 
of  Bacon,  one  of  the  idola  tribus . Hence  it  is  that  the 
moral  character  of  a man  eminent  in  letters  or  in  the  fine 
arts  is  treated,  often  by  contemporaries,  almost  always  by 
posterity,  with  extraordinary  tenderness.  The  world  de- 
rives pleasure  and  advantage  from  the  performances  of  such 
a man.  The  number  of  those  who  suffer  by  his  personal 
vices  is  small,  even  in  his  own  time,  when  compared  with 
the  number  of  those  to  whom  his  talents  are  a source  of 
gratification.  In  a few  years  all  those  whom  he  has  injured 
disappear.  But  his  works  remain,  and  are  a source  of  de- 
light to  millions.  The  genius  of  Sallust  is  still  with  us.  But 
the  Numidians  whom  he  plundered,  and  the  unfortunate 
husbands  who  caught  him  in  their  houses  at  unseasonable 
hours,  are  forgotten.  We  suffer  ourselves  to  be  del:ghted 
by  the  keenness  of  Clarendon’s  observation,  and  by  the 
sober  majesty  of  his  style,  till  we  forget  the  oppressor  and 
the  bigot  in  the  historian.  Falstaff  and  Tom  Jones  have 
survived  the  gamekeepers  whom  Shakspeare  cudgelled  and 
the  landladies  whom  Fielding  bilked.  A great  writer  is  the 
friend  and  benefactor  of  his  readers  \ and  they  cannot  but 
judge  of  him  under  the  deluding  influence  of  friendship  and 
gratitude.  We  all  know  how  unwilling  we  are  to  admit  the 
truth  of  any  disgraceful  story  about  a person  whose  society 
we  like,  and  from  whom  we  have  received  favors  ; how  long 
we  struggle  against  evidence,  how  fondly,  when  the  facts 
cannot  be  disputed,  we  cling  to  the  hope  that  there  may  be 
some  explanation  or  some  extenuating  circumstance  with 
which  we  are  unacquainted.  Just  such  is  the  feeling  which 


144  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

a man  of  liberal  education  naturally  entertains  towards  the 
great  minds  of  former  ages.  The  debt  which  he  owes  to 
them  is  incalculable.  They  have  guided  him  to  truth. 
They  have  filled  his  mind  with  noble  and  graceful  images. 
They  have  stood  by  him  in  all  vicissitudes,  comforters  in 
sorrow,  nurses  in  sickness,  companions  in  solitude.  These 
friendships  are  exposed  to  no  danger  from  the  occurrences 
by  which  other  attachments  are  weakened  or  dissolved. 
Time  glides  on  ; fortune  is  inconstant;  tempers  are  soured  ; 
bonds  which  seem  indissoluble  are  daily  sundered  by  interest, 
by  emulation,  or  by  caprice.  But  no  such  cause  can  affect 
the  silent  converse  which  we  hold  with  the  highest  of  hu- 
man  intellects.  That  placid  intercourse  is  disturbed  by  no 
jealousies  or  resentments.  These  are  the  old  friends  who 
are  never  seen  with  new  faces,  who  are  the  same  in  wealth 
and  in  poverty,  in  glory  and  in  obscurity.  With  the  dead 
there  is  no  rivalry.  In  the  dead  there  is  no  change.  Plato 
is  never  sullen.  Cervantes  is  never  petulant.  Demosthenes 
never  comes  unseasonably.  Dante  never  stays  too  long. 
No  difference  of  political  opinion  can  alienate  Cicero.  No 
heresy  can  excite  the  horror  of  Bossuet. 

Nothing,  then,  can  be  more  natural  than  that  a person 
endowed  with  sensibility  and  imagination  should  entertain 
a respectful  and  affectionate  feeling  towards  those  great  men 
with  whose  minds  he  holds  daily  communion.  Yet  nothing 
can  be  more  certain  than  that  such  men  have  not  always 
deserved  to  be  regarded  with  respect  or  affection.  Some 
writers,  whose  works  will  continue  to  instruct  and  delight 
mankind  to  the  remotest  ages,  have  been  placed  in  such 
situations  that  their  actions  and  motives  are  as  well  known 
to  us  as  the  actions  and  motives  of  one  human  being  can  be 
known  to  another;  and  unhappily  their  conduct  has  not 
always  been  such  as  an  impartial  judge  can  contemplate 
with  approbation.  But  the  fanaticism  of  the  devout  wor- 
shipper of  genius  is  proof  against  all  evidence  and  all  argu- 
ment. The  character  of  his  idol  is  a matter  of  faith ; and  the 
province  of  faith  is  not  to  be  invaded  by  reason.  He  main- 
tains his  superstition  with  a credulity  as  boundless,  and  a 
zeal  as  unscrupulous,  as  can  be  found  in  the  most  ardent  par- 
tisans of  religious  or  political  factions.  The  most  decisive 
proofs  are  rejected  ; the  plainest  rules  of  morality  are  ex- 
plained away  ; extensive  and  important  portions  of  history 
are  completely  distorted.  The  enthusiast  misrepresents 
facts  with  all  the  'effrontery  of  an  advocate,  and  confounds 


LORD  BACOi*. 


145 


right  and  wrong  with  all  the  dexterity  of  a Jesuit ; and  all 
this  only  in  order  that  some  man  who  has  been  in  his  grave 
during  many  ages  may  have  a fairer  character  than  he 
deserves. 

Middleton’s  Life  of  Cicero  is  a striking  instance  of  the 
influence  of  this  sort  of  partiality.  Never  was  there  a 
character  which  it  was  easier  to  read  than  that  of  Cicero. 
Never  was  there  a mind  keener  or  more  critical  than  that  of 
Middleton,  llad  the  biographer  brought  to  the  examination 
of  his  favorite  statesman’s  conduct  but  a very  small  part  of 
the  acuteness  and  severity  which  he  displayed  when  he  was 
engaged  in  investigating  the  high  pretensions  of  Epiphanius 
and  Justin  Martyr,  he  could  not  have  failed  to  produce  a 
most  valuable  history  of  a most  interesting  portion  of  time. 
But  this  most  ingenious  and  learned  man,  though 

“ So  wary  held  and  wise 
That,  as  ’twas  said,  he  scarce  received 
For  gospel  what  the  church  believed,’ ’ 

had  a superstition  of  his  own.  The  great  Iconoclast  was 
himself  an  idolater.  The  great  AvvoccUo  del  Diavolo , while 
he  disputed,  with  no  small  ability,  the  claims  of  Cyprian  and 
Athanasius  to  a place  in  the  Calendar,  was  himself  compos- 
ing a lying  legend  in  honor  of  St.  Tully.  He  was  holding 
up  as  a model  of  every  virtue  a man  whose  talents  and  ac- 
quirements, indeed,  can  never  be  too  highly  extolled,  and 
who  was  by  no  means  destitute  of  amiable  qualities,  but 
whose  whole  soul  was  under  the  dominion  of  a girlish  vanity 
and  a craven  fear.  Actions  for  which  Cicero  himself,  the 
most  eloquent  and  skilful  of  advocates,  could  contrive  no 
excuse,  actions  which  in  his  confidential  correspondence  he 
mentioned  with  remorse  and  shame,  are  represented  by  his 
biographer  as  wise,  virtuous,  heroic.  The  whole  history  of 
that  great  revolution  which  overthrew  the  Roman  aristocracy 
the  whole  state  of  parties,  the  character  of  every  public  man, 
is  elaborately  misrepresented,  in  order  to  make  out  some- 
thing which  may  look  like  a defence  of  one  most  eloquent 
and  accomplished  trimmer. 

The  volume  before  us  reminds  us  now  and  then  of  the 
Life  of  Cicero.  But  there  is  this  marked  difference.  Dr. 
Middleton  evidently  had  an  uneasy  consciousness  of  the 
weakness  of  his  cause,  and  therefore  resorted  to  the  most 
disingenuous  shifts,  to  unpardonable  distortions  and  sup- 
pression of  facts.  Mr.  Montagu’s  faith  is  sincere  and  im- 
plicit. He  practises  no  trickery,  conceals  nothing. 

You  IL— 10 


146  Macaulay  s miscellaneous  writing* 

He  puts  the  facts  before  us  in  the  full  confidence  that  they 
will  produce  on  our  minds  the  effect  which  they  have  pro- 
duced on  his  own.  It  is  not  till  he  comes  to  reason  from 
facts  to  motives  that  his  partiality  shows  itself ; and  then  he 
leaves  Middleton  himself  far  behind.  His  work  proceeds 
on  the  assumption  that  Bacon  was  an  eminently  virtuous 
man.  From  the  tree  Mr.  Montagu  judges  of  the  fruit.  He 
is  forced  to  relate  many  actions  which,  if  any  man  but  Bacon 
had  committed  them,  nobody  would  have  dreamed  of  de- 
fending, actions  which  are  readily  and  completely  explained 
by  supposing  Bacon  to  have  been  a man  whose  principles 
were  not  strict,  and  whose  spirit  was  not  high,  actions 
which  can  be  explained  in  no  other  way  without  resorting 
to  some  grotesque  hypothesis  for  which  there  is  not  a tittle 
of  evidence.  But  any  hypothesis  is,  in  Mr.  Montagu’s  opin- 
ion, more  probable  than  that  his  hero  should  ever  have  done 
anything  very  wrong. 

This  mode  of  defending  Bacon  seems  to  us  by  no  means 
Baconian.  To  take  a man’s  character  for  granted,  and  then 
from  his  character  to  infer  the  moral  quality  of  all  his  ac- 
tions, is  surely  a process  the  very  reverse  of  that  which  is 
recommended  in  the  Novum  Organum . Nothing,  we  are 
sure,  could  have  led  Mr.  Montagu  to  depart  so  far  from  his 
master’s  precepts,  except  zeal  for  his  master’s  honor.  We 
shall  follow  a different  course.  We  shall  attempt,  with  the 
valuable  assistance  which  Mr.  Montagu  has  afforded  us,  to 
frame  such  an  account  of  Bacon’s  life  as  may  enable  our 
readers  correctly  to  estimate  his  character. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  Francis  Bacon  was  the 
so  \ of  Sir  Nicholas  Bacon,  who  held  the  great  seal  of  Eng- 
land during  the  first  twenty  years  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth. 
The  fame  of  the  father  has  been  thrown  into  the  shade  by 
that  of  the  son.  But  Sir  Nicholas  was  no  ordinary  man. 
He  belonged  to  a set  of  men  whom  it  is  easier  to  describe 
collectively  than  separately,  whose  minds  were  formed  by  one 
system  of  discipline,  who  belonged  to  one  rank  in  society, 
to  one  university,  to  one  party,  to  one  sect,  to  one  adminis- 
tration, and  who  resembled  each  other  so  much  in  talents, 
in  opinions,  in  habits,  in  fortunes,  that  one  character,  we 
had  almost  said  one  life,  may,  to  a considerable  extent, 
serve  for  them  all. 

They  were  the  first  generation  of  statesmen  by  profes- 
sion that  England  produced.  Before  their  time  the  division 
of  labor  had,  in  this  respect,  been  very  imperfect.  Those 


to m>  fcAcotf. 


14? 


who  had  directed  public  affairs  had  been,  with  tew  excep 
tions,  warriors  or  priests ; warriors  whose  rude  courage  was 
neither  guided  by  science  nor  softened  by  humanity,  priests 
whose  learning  and  abilities  were  habitually  devoted  to  the 
defence  of  tyranny  and  imposture.  The  Hotspurs,  the  Ne- 
villes, the  Cliffords,  rough,  illiterate,  and  unreflecting, 
brought  to  the  council-board  the  fierce  and  imperious  dispo- 
sition which  they  had  acquired  amidst  the  tumult  of  preda- 
tory war,  or  in  the  gloomy  repose  of  the  garrisoned  and 
moated  castle.  On  the  other  side  was  the  calm  and  subtle 
prelate,  versed  in  all  that  was  then  considered  as  learning, 
trained  in  the  Schools  to  manage  words,  and  in  the  confes- 
sional to  manage  hearts,  seldetn  superstitious,  but  skilful  in 
practising  on  the  superstition  of  others,  false,  as  it  was  nat- 
ural that  a man  should  be  whose  profession  imposed  on  all 
who  were  not  saints  the  necessity  of  being  hypocrites,  self- 
ish, as  it  was  natural  that  a man  should  be  who  could  form 
no  domestic  ties  and  cherish  no  hope  of  legitimate  posterity, 
more  attached  to  his  order  than  to  his  country,  and  guiding 
the  politics  of  England  with  a constant  side-glance  at  Rome. 

But  the  increase  of  wealth,  the  progress  of  knowledge, 
and  the  reformation  of  religion  produced  a great  change. 
The  nobles  ceased  to  be  military  chieftains;  the  priests 
ceased  to  possess  a monopoly  of  learning ; and  a new  and 
remarkable  species  of  politicians  appeared. 

These  men  came  from  neither  of  the  classes  which  had, 
till  then,  almost  exclusively  furnished  ministers  of  state. 
They  were  all  laymen ; yet  they  were  all  men  of  learning ; 
and  they  were  all  men  of  peace.  They  were  not  members 
of  the  aristocracy.  They  inherited  no  titles,  no  large  do- 
mains, no  armies  of  retainers,  no  fortified  castles.  Yet  they 
were  not  low  men,  such  as  those  whom  princes,  jealous  of 
the  power  of  a nobility,  have  sometimes  raised  from  forges 
and  cobblers’  stalls  to  fhe  highest  situations.  They  were 
all  gentlemen  by  birth.  They  had  all  received  a liberal  edu- 
cation. It  is  a remarkable  fact  that  they  were  all  mem* 
bers  of  the  same  university.  The  two  great  national  seats 
of  learning  had  even  then  acquired  the  characters  which 
they  still  retain.  In  intellectual  activity,  and  in  readiness 
to  admit  improvements,  the  superiority  was  then,  as  it  has 
ever  since  been,  on  the  side  of  the  less  ancient  and  splendid 
institution.  Cambridge  had  the  honor  of  educating  those 
celebrated  Protestant  Bishops  whom  Oxford  had  the  honor 
of  burning ; and  at  Cambridge  were  formed  the  minds  of 


148  macattlay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

all  those  statesmen  to  whom  chiefly  is  to  be  attributed  the 
secure  establishment  of  the  reformed  religion  in  the  north 
of  Europe. 

The  statesmen  of  whom  we  speak  passed  their  youth 
surrounded  by  the  incessant  din  of  theological  controversy. 
Opinions  were  still  in  a state  of  chaotic  anarchy,  intermin- 
gling, separating,  advancing,  receding.  Sometimes  the 
stubborn  bigotry  of  the  Conservatives  seemed  likely  to  pre- 
vail. Then  the  impetuous  onset  of  the  Reformers  for  a mo- 
ment carried  all  before  it.  Then  again  the  resisting  mass 
made  a desperate  stand,  arrested  the  movement,  and  forced 
it  slowly  back.  The  vacillation  which  at  that  time  ap- 
peared in  English  legislation,  and  which  it  has  been  the 
fashion  to  attribute  to  the  caprice  and  to  the  power  of  one 
or  two  individuals,  was  truly  a national  vacillation.  It  was 
not  only  in  the  mind  of  Henry  that  the  new  theology  ob- 
tained the  ascendant  one  day,  and  that  the  lessons  of  the 
nurse  and  of  the  priest  regained  their  influence  on  the  mor- 
row. It  was  not  only  in  the  House  of  Tudor  that  the  hus- 
band was  exasperated  by  the  opposition  of  the  wife,  that 
the  son  dissented  from  the  opinions  of  the  father,  that  the 
brother  persecuted  the  sister,  that  one  sister  persecuted  an- 
other. The  principles  of  Conservation  and  Reform  carried 
on  their  warfare  in  every  part  of  society,  in  every  congrega- 
tion, in  every  school  of  learning,  round  the  hearth  of  every 
private  family,  in  the  recesses  of  every  reflecting  mind. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  this  ferment  that  the  minds  of  the  ' 
persons  whom  we  are  describing  were  developed.  They 
were  born  Reformers.  They  belonged  by  nature  to  that 
order  of  men  who  always  form  the  front  ranks  in  the  great 
intellectual  progress.  They  were,  therefore,  one  and  all, 
Protestants.  In  religious  matters,  however,  though  there  is 
no  reason  to  doubt  that  they  were  sincere,  they  were  by  no 
means  zealous.  None  of  them  chose  to  run  the  smallest  person- 
al risk  during  the  reign  of  Mary.  None  of  them  favored  the 
unhappy  attempt  of  Northumberland  in  favor  of  his  daugh- 
ter-in-law.  None  of  them  shared  in  the  desperate  councils 
of  Wyatt.  They  contrived  to  have  business  on  the  Conti- 
nent ; or,  ii  they  staid  in  England,  they  heard  mass  and  kept 
Lent  with  great  decorum.  When  those  dark  and  perilous 
years  had  gone  by,  and  when  the  crown  had  descended  to  a 
new  sovereign,  they  took  the  lead  in  the  reformation  of  the 
Church.  But  they  proceeded,  not  with  the  impetuosity  of 
theologians,  but  with  the  calm  determination  of  statesmen 


LORD  BACOtf. 


149 


They  actecf,  not  like  men  who  considered  tlie  Romish  wor- 
ship as  a system  too  offensive  to  God,  and  too  destructive  of 
souls  to  be  tolerated  for  an  hour,  but  like  men  who  regarded 
the  points  in  dispute  among  Christians  as  in  themselves 
unimportant,  and  who  were  not  restrained  by  any  scruple  of 
conscience  from  professing,  as  they  had  before  professed, 
the  Catholic  faith  of  Mary,  the  Protestant  faith  of  Edward, 
or  any  of  the  numerous  intermediate  combinations  which  the 
caprice  of  Henry  and  the  servile  policy  of  Cranmer  had  formed 
out  of  the  doctrines  of  both  the  hostile  parties.  They  took  a 
deliberate  view  of  the  state  of  their  own  country  and  of  the 
Continent ; they  satisfied  themselves  as  to  the  leaning  of  the 
public  mind ; and  they  chose  their  side.  They  placed  them- 
selves at  the  head  of  the  Protestants  of  Europe,  and  staked 
all  their  fame  and  fortunes  on  the  success  of  their  party. 

It  is  needless  to  relate . how  dexterously,  how  resolutely, 
how  gloriously  they  directed  the  politics  of  England  during 
the  eventful  years  which  followed,  how  they  succeeded  in 
uniting  their  friends  and  separating  their  enemies,  how  they 
humbled  the  pride  of  Philip,  how  they  backed  the  uncon- 
querable spirit  of  Coligni,  how  they  rescued  Holland  from 
tyranny,  how  they  founded  the  maritime  greatness  of  their 
country,  how  they  outwitted  the  artful  politicians  of  Italy, 
and  tamed  the  ferocious  chieftains  of  Scotland.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  deny  that  they  committed  many  acts  which  would 
justly  bring  on  a statesman  of  our  time  censures  of  the 
most  serious  kind.  But,  when  we  consider  the  state  of 
morality  in  their  age,  and  the  unscrupulous  character  of  the 
adversaries  against  whom  they  had  to  contend,  we  are  forced 
to  admit  that  it  is  not  without  reason  that  their  names  are 
still  held  in  veneration  by  their  countrymen. 

There  were,  doubtless,  many  diversities  in  their  intellec- 
tual and  moral  character.  But  there  was  a strong  family 
likeness.  The  constitution  of  their  minds  was  remarkably 
sound.  No  particular  faculty  was  preeminently  developed  ) 
but  manly  health  and  vigor  were  equally  diffused  through 
the  whole.  They  were  men  of  letters.  Their  minds  were 
by  nature  and  by  exercise  well  fashioned  for  speculative  pur- 
suits. It  was  by  circumstances,  rather  than  by  any  strong 
bias  of  inclination,  that  they  were  led  to  take  a prominent 
part  in  active  life.  In  active  life,  however,  no  men  could 
be  more  perfectly  free  from  the  faults  of  mere  theorists  and 
pedants.  No  men  observed  more  accurately  the  signs  of 
the  times.  No  men  had  a greater  practical  acquaintance 


1 50  MACAULAY^  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

with  human  nature.  Their  policy  was  generally  character- 
ized rather  by  vigilance,  by  moderation,  and  by  firmness 
than  by  invention,  or  by  the  spirit  of  enterprise. 

They  spoke  and  wrote  in  a manner  worthy  of  their  excel- 
lent sense.  Their  eloquence  was  less  copious  and  less  inge- 
nious, but  far  purer  and  more  manly  than  that  of  the  suc- 
ceeding generation.  It  was  the  eloquence  of  men  who  ha  I 
lived  with  the  first  translators  of  the  Bible,  and  with  the 
authors  of  the  Book  of  Common  Prayer.  It  was  luminous, 
dignified,  solid,  and  very  slightly  tainted  with  that  affecta- 
tion which  deformed  the  style  of  the  ablest  men  of  Ijie  next 
age.  If,  as  sometimes  chanced,  these  politicians  were  under 
the  necessity  of  taking  a part  in  the  theological  ''ontroversiefc 
on  which  the  dearest  interests  of  kingdoms  were  then  staked, 
they  acquitted  themselves  as  if  their  whole  lives  had  been 
passed  in  the  Schools  and  the  Convocation. 

There  was  something  in  the  temper  of  these  celebrated 
men  which  secured  them  against  the  proverbial  inconstancy 
both  of  the  court  and  of  the  multitude.  No  intrigue,  no 
combination  of  rivals,  could  deprive  them  of  the  confidence 
of  their  Sovereign.  No  parliament  attacked  their  influence. 
No  mob  coupled  their  names  with  any  odious  grievance. 
Their  power  ended  only  with  their  lives.  In  this  respect, 
their  fate  presents  a most  remarkable  contrast  to  that  of  the 
enterprising  and  brilliant  politicians  of  the  preceding  and  of 
the  succeeding  generation.  Burleigh  was  minister  during 
forty  years.  Sir  Nicholas  Bacon  held  the  great  seal  more 
than  twenty  years.  Sir  Walter  Mildmay  was  Chancellor  of 
the  Exchequer  twenty-three  years.  Sir  Thomas  Smith  was 
Secretary  of  State  eighteen  years;  Sir  Francis  Walsingham 
about  as  long.  They  all  died  in  office,  and  in  the  enjoyment 
of  public  respect  and  royal  favor.  Far  different  had, been 
the  fate  of  Wolsey,  Cromwell,  Norfolk,  Somerset  and  North- 
umberland. Far  different  also  was  the  fate  of  Essex,  of 
Raleigh,  and  of  the  still  more  illustrious  man  whose  life  wc 
propose  to  consider. 

The  explanation  of  this  circumstance  is  perhaps  contained 
in  the  motto  which  Sir  Nicholas  Bacon  inscribed  over  the 
entrance  of  his  hall  in  Gorhambury,  Mediocria  firma.  This 
maxim  was  constantly  borne  in  mind  by  himself  and  his  col- 
leagues. They  were  more  solicitous  to  lay  the  foundations 
of  their  power  deep  than  to  raise  the  structure  to  a con- 
spicuous but  insecure  height.  None  of  them  aspired  to  be 
sole  Minister.  None  of  them  provoked  envy  by  an  oaten* 


LORD  BACON. 


151 


fcatioas  display  of  wealth  and  influence.  None  of  them  af- 
fected to  outshine  the  ancient  aristocracy  of  the  kingdom. 
They  were  free  from  that  childish  love  of  titles  which  charac- 
terized the  successful  courtiers  of  the  generation  which  pre- 
ceded them,  and  of  that  which  followed  them.  Only  one  of 
those  whom  we  have  named  was  made  a j>eer ; and  he  was 
content  with  the  lowest  degree  of  the  peerage.  As  to  money, 
none  of  them  could,  in  that  age,  justly  be  considered  as 
i apacious.  Some  of  them  would,  even  in  our  time,  deserve 
the  praise  of  eminent  disinterestedness.  Their  fidelity  to 
the  State  was  incorruptible.  Their  private  morals  were 
without  stain.  Their  households  were  sober  and  well- 
governed. 

Among  these  statesmen  Sir  Nicholas  Bacon  was  generally 
considered  as  ranking  next  to  Burleigh.  lie  was  called  by 
Camden  “ Sacris  conciliis  alterum  columen  ; ” and  by  George 
Buchanan, 

“diu  Britannici 
Regni  secundum  columen.” 

The  second  wife  of  Sir  Nicholas  and  mother  of  Francis 
Bacon  was  Anne,  one  of  the  daughters  of  Sir  Anthony 
Cooke,  a man  of  distinguished  learning  who  had  been  tutor 
to  Edward  the  Sixth.  Sir  Anthony  had  paid  considerable 
attention  to  the  education  of  his  daughters,  and  lived  to  see 
them  all  splendidly  and  happily  married.  Their  classical 
acquirements  made  them  conspicuous  even  among  the 
women  of  fashion  of  that  age.  Katherine,  who  became  Lady 
Killigrew,  wrote  Latin  Hexameters  and  Pentameters  which 
would  appear  with  credit  in  the  Masce  Etonenses . Mil- 
dred, the  wife  of  Lord  Burleigh,  was  described  by  Roger 
Ascham  as  the  best  Greek  scholar  among  the  young  women 
of  England,  Lady  Jane  Grey  always  excepted.  Anne,  the 
mother  of  Francis  Bacon,  was  distinguished  both  as  a 
linguist  and  as  a theologian.  She  corresponded  in  Greek 
with  Bishop  Jewel,  and  translated  his  Apologia  from  the 
Latin,  so  correctly  that  neither  he  nor  Archbishop  Parker 
could  suggest  a single  alteration.  She  also  translated  a 
series  of  sermons  on  fate  and  free-will  from  the  Tuscan  of 
Bernardo  Ochino.  This  fact  is  the  more  curious,  because 
Ochino  was  one  of  that  small  and  audacious  band  of  Italian 
reformers,  anathematized  alike  by  Wittenberg,  by  Geneva, 
by  Zurich,  and  by  Rome,  from  which  the  Socinian  sect 
deduces  its  origin. 

Lady  Bacon  was  doubtless  a lady  of  highly  cultivated 


152  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

mind  after  the  fashion  of  her  age.  But  we  must  not  suffer 
ourselves  to  be  deluded  into  the  belief  that  she  and  her 
sisters  were  more  accomplished  women  than  many  who  are 
now  living.  On  this  subject  there  is,  we  think,  much  mis- 
apprehension. We  have  often  heard  men  who  wish,  as 
almost  all  men  of  sense  wish,  that  women  should  be  highly 
educated,  speak  with  rapture  of  the  English  ladies  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  and  lament  that  they  can  find  no  modern 
damsel  resembling  those  fair  pupils  of  Ascham  and  Aylmer 
who  compared,  over  their  embroidery,  the  styles  of  Isoc- 
rates and  Lysias,  and  who,  while  the  horns  were  sounding 
and  the  dogs  in  full  cry,  sat  in  the  lonely  oriel,  with  eyes 
riveted  to  that  immortal  page  which  tells  how  meekly  and 
bravely  the  first  great  martyr  of  intellectual  liberty  took 
the  cup  from  his  weeping  jailer.  But  surely  these  com- 
plaints have  very  little  foundation.  We  would  by  no  means 
disparage  the  ladies  of  the  sixteenth  century  or  their  pur- 
suits. But  we  conceive  that  those  who  extol  them  at  the 
expense  of  the  women  of  our  time  forget  one  very  obvious 
and  very  important  circumstance.  In  the  time  of  Henry 
the  Eighth  and  Edward  the  Sixth,  a person  who  did  not 
read  Greek  and  Latin  could  read  nothing,  or  next  to 
nothing.  The  Italian  was  the  only  modern  language  which 
possessed  anything  that  could  be  called  a literature.  All 
the  valuable  books  then  extant  in  all  the  vernacular  dialects 
of  Europe  would  hardly  have  filled  a single  shelf.  England 
did  not  yet  possess  Shakspeare’s  plays  and  the  Fairy  Queen, 
nor  France  Montaigne’s  Essays,  nor  Spain  Don  Quixote. 
In  looking  round  a well-furnished  library,  how  many  Eng- 
lish or  French  books  can  we  find  which  were  extant  when 
Lady  Jane  Grey  and  Queen  Elizabeth  received  their  edu- 
cation? Chaucer,  Gower,  Froissart,  Comines,  Rabelais, 
nearly  complete  the  list.  It  was  therefore  absolutely  neces- 
sary that  a woman  should  be  uneducated  or  classically  edu- 
cated. Indeed,  without  a knowledge  of  one  of  the  ancient 
languages  no  person  could  then  have  any  clear  notion  of 
what  was  passing  in  the  political,  the  literary,  or  the  re: 
ligious  world.  The  Latin  was  in  the  sixteenth  century  all 
and  more  than  all  that  the  French  was  in  the  eighteenth. 
It  was  the  language  of  courts  as  well  as  of  the  schools.  It 
was  the  language  of  diplomacy ; it  was  the  language  of 
theological  and  political  controversy.  Being  a fixed  lan- 
guage, while  the  living  languages  were  in  a state  of  fluctu- 
ation, and  being  universally  known  to  the  learned  and  the 


LORD  BACON. 


15& 


polite,  it  was  employed  by  almost  every  writer  who  aspired 
to  a wide  and  durable  reputation.  A person  who  was 
ignorant  of  it  was  shut  out  from  all  acquaintance,  not 
merely  with  Cicero  and  Virgil,  not  merely  with  heavy 
treatises  on  canon-law  and  school-divinity,  but  with  the 
most  interesting  memoirs,  state  papers,  and  pamphlets  of 
his  own  time,  nay  even  with  the  most  admired  poetry  and 
the  most  popular  squibs  which  appeared  on  the  fleeting 
topics  of  the  day,  with  Buchanan’s  complimentary  verses, 
with  Erasmus’s  dialogues,  with  Hutten’s  epistles. 

This  is  no  longer  the  case.  All  political  and  religious 
controversy  is  now  conducted  in  the  modern  languages. 
The  ancient  tongues  are  used  only  in  comments  on  the 
ancient  writers.  The  great  productions  of  Athenian  and 
Roman  genius  are  indeed  still  what  they  were.  But  though 
their  positive  value  is  unchanged,  their  relative  value,  when 
compared  with  the  whole  mass  of  mental  wealth  possessed 
by  mankind,  has  been  constantly  falling.  They  were  the 
intellectual  all  of  our  ancestors.  They  are  but  a part  of  our 
treasures.  Over  what  tragedy  could  Lady  Jane  Grey  have 
wept,  over  what  comedy  could  she  have  smiled,  if  the 
ancient  dramatists  had  not  been  in  her  library?  A modern 
reader  can  make  shift  without  (Edipus  and  Medea,  while  he 
possesses  Othello  and  Hamlet.  If  he  knows  nothing  of 
Pyrgopolynices  and  Thraso,  he  is  familiar  with  Bobadil,  and 
Bessus,  and  Pistol,  and  Parolles.  If  he  cannot  enjoy  the 
delicious  irony  of  Plato,  he  may  find  some  compensation  in 
that  of  Pascal.  If  he  is  shut  out  from  Nephelococcygia,  he 
may  take  refuge  in  Lilliput.  We  are  guilty,  we  hope,  of  no 
irreverence  towards  those  great  nations  to  which  the  human 
race  owes  art,  science,  taste,  civil  and  intellectual  freedom, 
when  we  say,  that  the  stock  bequeathed  by  them  to  us  has 
been  so  carefully  improved  that  the  accumulated  interest 
now  exceeds  the  principal.  We  believe  that  the  books 
which  have  been  written  in  the  languages  of  western  Europe, 
during  the  last  two  hundred  and  fifty  years, — translations 
from  the  ancient  languages  of  course  included, — are  of 
greater  value  than  all  the  books  which  at  the  beginning  of 
that  period  were  extant  in  the  world.  With  the  modern 
languages  of  Europe  English  women  are  at  least  as  well  ac- 
quainted as  English  men.  When,  therefore,  we  compare 
the  acquirements  of  Lady  Jane  Grey  with  those  of  an  ac- 
complished young  woman  of  our  own  time,  we  have  no 
hesitation  in  awarding  the  superiority  to  the  latter.  We 


154 


Macaulay's  miscellaneous  writings. 


hope  that  our  readers  will  pardon  this  digression.  It  is 
long  ; but  it  can  hardly  be  called  unseasonable,  if  it  tends  to 
convince  them  that  they  are  mistaken  in  thinking  that  the 
great-great-grandmothers«of  their  great-great-grandmothers 
were  superior  women  to  their  sisters  and  their  wives. 

Francis  Bacon,  the  youngest  son  of  Sir  Nicholas,  was 
born  at  York  House,  his  father’s  residence  in  the  Strand, 
on  the  twenty-second  of  January,  1561.  The  health  of 
Francis  was  very  delicate ; and  to  this  circumstance  may 
be  partly  attributed  that  gravity  of  carriage,  and  that  love 
of  sedentary  pursuits,  which  distinguished  him  from  other 
boys.  Everybody  knows  how  much  his  premature  readiness 
of  wit  and  sobriety  of  deportment  amused  the  Queen,  and 
how  she  used  to  call  him  her  young  Lord  Keeper.  We  are 
told  that,  while  still  a mere  child,  he  stole  away  from  his 
playfellows  to  a vault  in  St.  James’s  Fields,  for  the  purpose 
of  investigating  the  cause  of  a singular  echo  which  he  had 
observed  there.  It  is  certain  that,  at  only  twelve,  he  busied 
himself  with  very  ingenious  speculations  on  the  art  of 
legerdemain  ; a subject  which,  as  Professor  Dugald  Stewart 
lias  most  justly  observed,  merits  much  more  attention  from 
philosophers  than  it  has  ever  received.  These  are  trifles. 
But  the  eminence  which  Bacon  afterwards  attained  makes 
them  interesting. 

In  the  thirteenth  year  of  his  age  lie  was  entered  at 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  That  celebrated  school  of 
learning  enjoyed  the  peculiar  favor  of  the  Lord  Treasurer 
and  the  Lord  Keeper,  and  acknowledged  the  advantages 
which  it  derived  {bom  their  patronage  in  a public  letter 
which  bears  date  Ju;,t  a month  after  the  admission  of  Fran- 
cis Bacon.  The  n eter  was  Whitgift,  afterwards  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbm?  , % narrow-minded,  mean,  and  tyrannical 
priest,  who  gained  >OWer  by  servility  and  adulation,  and 
employed  it  in  perse  citing  both  those  who  agreed  with  Cal- 
vin about  Church  (£ ,/>ernment,  and  those  who  differed  from 
Calvin  touching  the  vetrine  of  Reprobation.  He  was  now 
in  a chrysalis  staC  putting  off  the.  worm  and  putting  on 
the  dragon-fly,  a 1 of  intermediate  grub  between  syco- 
phant and  oppresses.  He  was  indemnifying  himself  for  the 
court  which  he  iot3v3  it  expedient  to  pay  to  the  Ministers 
by  exercising  much  petty  tyranny  within  his  own  college. 
It  would  be  unjust,  however,  to  deny  him  the  praise  of 
having  rendered  about  this  time  one  important  service  to 
letters.  He  stood  up  manfully  against  those  who  wished  to 


LORD  BACON*. 


155 


make  Trinity  College  a mere  appendage  to  Westminster 
School ; and  by  this  act,  the  only  good  act,  as  far  as  we  re- 
member, of  his  long  public  life,  he  saved  the  noblest  place 
of  education  in  England  from  the  degrading  fate  of  King’s 
College  and  New  College. 

It  has  often  been  said  that  Bacon,  while  still  at  College, 
planned  that  great  intellectual  revolution  with  which  his 
name  is  inseparably  connected.  The  evidence  on  this  sub- 
ject, however/  is  hardly  sufficient  to  prove  what  is  in  itself 
so  improbable  as  that  any  definite  scheme  of  that  kind 
should  have  been  so  early  formed,  even  by  so  powerful  and 
active  a mind.  But  it  is  certain  that,  after  a residence  of 
three  years  at  Cambridge,  Bacon  departed,  carrying  with 
him  a profound  contempt  for  the  course  of  study  pursued 
there,  a fixed  conviction  that  the  system  of  academic  educa- 
tion in  England  was  radically  vicious,  a just  scorn  for  the 
trifles  on  which  the  followers  of  Aristotle  had  wasted  their 
powers,  and  no  great  reverence  for  Aristotle  himself. 

In  his  sixteenth  year  he  visited  Paris,  and  resided  there 
for  some  time,  under  the  care  of  Sir  Amias  Paulet,  Eliza- 
beth’s minister  at  the  French  court,  and  one  of  the  ablest 
and  most  upright  of  the  many  valuable  servants  whom  she 
employed.  France  was  at  that  time  in  a deplorable  state 
of  agitation.  The  Huguenots  and  the  Catholics  were  mus- 
tering all  their  force  for  the  fiercest  and  most  protracted  of 
their  many  struggles  ; while  the  Prince,  whose  duty  it  was 
to  protect  and  to  restrain  both,  had,  by  his  vices  and  follies, 
degraded  himself  so  deeply  that  he  had  no  authority  over 
either.  Bacon,  however,  made  a tour  through  several  prov- 
inces, and  appears  to  have  passed  some  time  at  Poitiers. 
We  have  abundant  proof  that  during  his  stay  on  the  Conti* 
nent  he  did  not  neglect  literary  and  scientific  pursuits.  But 
his  attention  seems  to  have  been  chiefly  directed  to  statistics 
and  diplomacy.  It  was  at  this  time  that  he  wrrote  those 
Notes  cn  the  State  of  Europe  which  are  printed  in  his 
works.  He  studied  the  principles  of  the  art  of  deciphering 
with  g2>eat  interest,  and  invented  one  cipher  so  ingenious 
that,  many  years  later,  he  thought  it  deserving  of  a place  in 
the  De  Augmentis . In  February,  1580,  while  engaged  in 
these  pursuits,  he  received  intelligence  of  the  almost  sudden 
death  of  his  father,  and  instantly  returned  to  England* 

His  prospects  were  greatly  overcast  by  this  event.  He 
was  most  desirous  to  obtain  a provision  which  might  enable 
hm  to  devote  himself  to  literatgye  and  politics,  m applied 


Ih6 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


to  the  Government ; and  it  seems  strange  that  he  should 
have  applied  in  vain.  His  wishes  were  moderate.  His 
hereditary  claims  on  the  administration  were  great.  He 
had  himself  been  favorably  noticed  by  the  Queen.  Hi» 
uncle  was  Prime  Minister.  His  own  talents  were  such  as 
any  minister  might  have  been  eager  to  enlist  in  the  public 
service.  But  his  solicitations  were  unsuccessful.  The  truth 
is  that  the  Cecils  disliked  him,  and  did  all  they  could  de- 
cently do  to  keep  him  down.  It  has  never  been  alleged 
that  Bacon  had  done  anything  to  merit  this  dislike ; nor  is 
it  at  all  probable  that  a man  whose  temper  was  naturally 
mild,  whose  manners  were  courteous,  who,  through  life, 
nursed  his  fortunes  with  the  utmost  care,  and  who  was  fear- 
ful even  to  a fault  of  offending  the  powerful,  would  have 
given  any  just  cause  of  displeasure  to  a kinsman  who  had 
the  means  of  rendering  him  essential  service  and  of  doing 
him  irreparable  injury.  The  real  explanation,  we  believe,  is 
this : Robert  Cecil,  the  Treasurer’s  second  son,  was  younger 
by  a few  months  than  Bacon.  He  had  been  educated  with 
the  utmost  care,  had  been  initiated  while  still  a boy  in  the 
mysteries  of  diplomacy  and  court-intrigue,  and  was  just  at 
this  time  about  to  be  produced  on  the  stage  of  public  life. 
The  wish  nearest  to  Burleigh’s  heart  was  that  his  own  great- 
ness might  descend  to  this  favorite  child.  But  even  Burleigh’s 
fatherly  partiality  could  hardly  prevent  him  from  perceiv- 
ing that  Robert,  with  all  his  abilities  and  acquirements,  was 
no  match  for  his  cousin  Francis.  This  seems  to  us  the  only 
rational  explanation  of  the  Treasurer’s  conduct.  Mr.  Mon- 
tagu is  more  charitable.  He  supposes  that  Burleigh  was  in- 
fluenced merely  by  affection  for  his  nephew,  and  was  u little 
disposed  to  encourage  him  to  rely  on  others  rather  than  on 
himself,  and  to  venture  on  the  quicksands  of  politics,  instead 
of  the  certain  profession  of  the  law.”  If  such  were  Bur- 
leigh’s feelings,  it  seems  strange  that  he  should  have  suffered 
his  son  to  venture  on  those  quicksands  from  which  lie  so 
carefully  preserved  his  nephew.  But  the  truth  is  that,  if 
Burleigh  had  been  so  disposed,  he  might  easily  have  secured 
to  Bacon  a comfortable  provision  which  should  have  been 
exposed  to  no  risk.  And  it  is  certain  that  he  showed  as 
little  disposition  to  enable  his  nephew  to  live  by  a profession 
as  to  enabje  him  to  live  without  a profession.  That  Bacon 
himself  attributed  the  conduct  of  his  relatives  to  jealousy  of 
his  superior  talents,  we  have  not  the  smallest  doubt.  In  a 
letter  written  many  years  later  to  Villiers,  he  expresses  him* 


LORD  BACON. 


157 


self  thus  : “ Countenance,  encourage,  and  advance  able  men 
in  all  kinds,  degrees,  and  professions.  For  in  the  time  of 
the  Cecils,  the  father  and  the  son,  able  men  were  by  design 
and  of  pur]30se  suppressed.” 

Whatever  Burleigh’s  motives  might  be,  his  purpose  was 
unalterable.  The  supplications  which  Francis  addressed  to 
his  uncle  and  aunt  were  earnest,  humble,  and  almost  servile. 
He  was  the  most  promising  and  accomplished  young  man 
of  his  time.  His  father  had  been  fche  brother-in-law,  the 
most  useful  colleague,  the  nearest  friend  of  the  Minister. 
But  all  this  availed  poor  Francis  nothing.  He  was  forced, 
much  against  his  will,  to  betake  himself  to  the  study  of  the 
law.  He  was  admitted  at  Gray’s  Inn ; and,  during  some 
years  he  labored  there  in  obscurity. 

What  the  extent  of  his  legal  attainments  may  have  been 
it  is  difficult  to  say.  It  was  not  hard  for  a man  of  his  pow- 
ers to  acquire  that  very  moderate  portion  of  technical  knowl- 
edge which,  when  joined  to  quickness,  tact,  wit,  ingenuity, 
eloquence,  and  knowledge  of  the  world,  is  sufficient  to  raise 
an  advocate  to  the  highest  professional  eminence.  The  gen- 
eral opinion  appears  to  have  been  that  which  was  on  one 
occasion  expressed  by  Elizabeth.  “ Bacon,”  said  she,  “ hath 
a great  wit  and  much  learning ; but  in  law  showeth  to  the 
uttermost  of  his  knowledge,  and  is  not  deep.”  The  Cecils, 
we  suspect,  did  their  best  to  spread  this  opinion  by  whis- 
pers and  insinuations.  Coke  openly  proclaimed  it  with  that 
rancorous  insolence  which  was  habitual  to  him.  No  reports 
are  more  readily  believed  than  those  which  disparage  ge- 
nius, and  soothe  the  envy  of  conscious  mediocrity.  It  must 
have  been  inexpressibly  consoling  to  a stupid  sergeant,  the 
forerunner  of  him  who,  a hundred  and  fifty  years  later, 
“ shook  his  head  at  Murray  as  a wit,”  to  know  that  the 
most  profound  thinker  and  the  most  accomplished  orator  of 
the  age  was  very  imperfectly  acquainted  with  the  law  touch- 
ing bastard  eigne  and  mulier  puisne , and  confounded  the 
right  of  free  fishery  with  that  of  common  of  piscary. 

It  is  certain  that  no  man  in  that  age,  or  indeed  during  the 
century  and  a half  which  followed,  was  better  acquainted  than 
Bacon  with  the  philosophy  of  law.  Iiis  technical  knowl- 
edge was  quite  sufficient,  with  the  help  of  his  admirable  tal- 
ents and  of  his  insinuating  address,  to  procure  clients.  He 
rose  very  rapidly  into  business,  and  soon  entertained  hopes 
of  being  called  within  the  bar.  He  applied  to  Lord  Burleigh 
for  that  purpose3  but  received  a testy  refusal.  Of  the 


158  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  waitings. 

grounds  of  that  refusal  we  can,  in  some  measure,  judge  by 
Bacon’s  answer,  which  is  still  extant.  It  seems  that  the  old 
Lord,  whose  temper,  age  and  gout  had  by  no  means  altered 
for  the  better,  and  who  loved  to  mark  his  dislike  of  the 
showy,  quick-witted  young  men  of  the  rising  generation, 
took  this  opportunity  to  read  Francis  a very  sharp  lecture 
on  his  vanity  and  want  of  respect  for  his  betters.  Francis 
returned  a most  submissive  reply,  thanked  the  Treasurer 
for  the  admonition,  and  promised  to  profit  by  it.  Strangers 
meanwhile  were  less  unjust  to  the  young  barrister  than  his 
nearest  kinsman  had  been.  In  his  twenty-sixth  year  lie 
became  a bencher  of  his  Inn  ; and  two  years  later  he  was 
appointed  Lent  reader.  At  length  in  1590,  he  obtained  tor 
the  first  time  some  show  of  favor  from  the  Court.  He  was 
sworn  in  Queen’s  Counsel  extraordinary.  But  this  mark  of 
honor  was  not  accompanied  by  any  pecuniary  emolument. 
He  continued,  therefore,  to  solicit  his  powerful  relatives  for 
some  provision  which  might  enable  him  to  live  without 
drudging  at  his  profession.  He  bore,  with  a patience  and 
serenity  which,  we  fear,  bordered  on  meanness,  the  morose 
humors  of  his  uncle,  and  the  sneering  reflections  which  his 
cousin  cast  on  speculative  men,  lost  in  philosopical  dreams, 
and  too  wise  to  be  capable  of  transacting  public  business. 
At  length  the  Cecils  were  generous  enough  to  procure  for 
him  the  reversion  of  the  Registrarsliip  of  the  Star  Cham- 
ber. This  was  a lucrative  place  ; but,  as  many  years  elapsed 
before  it  fell  in,  he  w^as  still  under  the  necessity  of  laboring 
for  his  daily  bread. 

In  the  Parliament  which  was  called  in  1598  he  sat  as 
member  for  the  county  of  Middlesex,  and  soon  attained 
eminence  as  a debater.  It  is  easy  to  perceive  from  the 
scanty  remains  of  his  oratory  that  the  same  compactness  of 
expression  and  richness  of  fancy  which  appear  in  his  writings 
characterized  his  speeches;  and  that  his  extensive  acquaint- 
ance with  literature  and  history  enabled  him  to  entertain 
his  audience  with  a vast  variety  of  illustrations  and  allusions 
which  were  generally  happy  and  apposite,  but  which  were 
probably  not  least  pleasing  to  the  taste  of  that  age  when 
they  were  such  as  would  now  be  thought  childish  or  pe- 
dantic. It  is  evident  also  that  he  was,  as  indeed  might 
have  been  expected,  perfectly  free  from  those  faults  which 
are  generally  found  in  an  advocate  who,  after  having  risen 
to  eminence"  at  the  bar,  enters  the  House  of  Commons;  that 
it  was  his  habit  to  deal  with  every  great  question,  not  m 


tOBB  BACOH* 


159 


Small  detached  portions,  but  as  a whole ; that  he  refined 
little,  and  that  his  reasonings  were  those  of  a capacious 
rather  than  a subtle  mind.  Ben  Jonson,  a most  unexception- 
able judge,  has  described  Bacon’s  eloquence  in  words,  which, 
though  often  quoted,  will  bear  to  be  quoted  again.  “ There 
happened  in  my  time  one  noble  speaker  who  was  full  of 
gravity  in  his  speaking.  His  language  where  he  could  spare 
or  pass  by  a jest,  was  nobly  censorious.  Ho  man  ever  spoke 
more  neatly,  more  pressly,  more  weightily,  or  suffered  less 
emptiness,  less  idleness,  in  what  he  uttered.  Ho  member  of 
his  speech  but  consisted  of  his  own  graces.  His  hearers 
could  not  cough  or  look  aside  from  him  without  loss..  He 
commanded  where  he  spoke,  and  had  his  judges  angry  and 
pleased  at  his  devotion.  Ho  man  had  their  affections  more 
in  his  power.  The  fear  of  every  man  that  heard  him  was 
lest  he  should-  make  an  end.”  From  the  mention  which  is 
made  of  judges,  it  would  seem  that  Jonson  had  heard 
Bacon  only  at  the  Bar.  Indeed  we  imagine  that  the  House 
of  Commons  was  then  almost  inaccessible  to  strangers.  It 
is  not  probable  that  a man  of  Bacon’s  nice  observation 
would  speak  in  Parliament  exactly  as  he  spoke  in  the  Court 
of  Queen’s  Bench.  But  the  graces  of  manner  and  language 
must,  to  a great  extent,  have  been  common  between  the 
Queen’s  Counsel  and  the  Knight  of  the  Shire. 

Bacon  tried  to  play  a very  difficult  game  in  politics.  He 
wished  to  be  at  once  a favorite  at  Court  and  popular  with 
the  multitude.  If  any  man  could  have  succeeded  in  this  at- 
tempt, a man  of  talents  so  rare,  of  judgment  so  prematurely 
ripe,  of  temper  so  calm,  and  of  manners  so  plausible,  might 
have  been  expected  to  succeed.  Hor  indeed  did  he  wholly 
fail.  Once,  however,  he  indulged  in  a burst  of  patriotism 
which  cost  him  a long  and  bitter  remorse,  and  which  he 
never  ventured  to  repeat.  The  Court  asked  for  large  subsi- 
dies and  for  speedy  payment.  The  remains  of  Bacon’s 
speech  breathed  all  the  spirit  of  the  Long  Parliament.  “ The 
gentlemen,”  said  he,  “ must  sell  their  plate,  and  the  farmers 
their  brass  pots,  ere  this  will  be  paid  ; and  for  us,  we  are 
here  to  search  the  wounds  of  the  realm,  and  not  to  skim 
them  over.  The  dangers  are  these.  First,  we  shall  breed 
discontent  and  endanger  her  Majesty’s  safety,  which  must 
consist  more  in  the  love  of  the  people  than  their  wealth. 
Secondly,  this  being  granted  in  this  sort,  other  princes  here- 
after will  look  for  the  like  ; so  that  we  shall  put  an  evil  pre- 
cedent on  ourselves  and  our  posterity ; and  in  histories,  it 


160  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wettings. 

is  to  be  observed,  of  all  nations  the  English  are  not  to  be 
subject,  base,  or  taxable.”  The  Queen  and  her  ministers 
resented  this  outbreak  of  public  spirit  in  the  highest  manner. 
Indeed,  many  an  honest  member  of  the  House  of  Commons 
had,  for  a much  smaller  matter,  been  sent  to  the  Tower  by 
the  proud  and  hot-blooded  Tudors.  The  young  patriot 
condescended  to  make  the  most  abject  apologies.  He  ad- 
jured the  Lord  Treasurer  to  show  some  favor  to  his  poor 
servant  and  ally.  He  bemoaned  himself  to  the  Lord  Keeper, 
in  a letter  which  may  keep  in  countenance  the  most  unmanly 
of  the  epistles  which  Cicero  wrote  during  his  banishment. 
The  lesson  was  not  thrown  away.  Bacon  never  offended  in 
the  same  manner  again. 

He  was  now  satisfied  that  he  had  little  to  hope  from  the 
patronage  of  those  powerful  kinsmen  whom  he  had  solicited 
during  twelve  years  with  such  meek  pertinacity ; and  he 
began  to  look  towards  a different  quarter.  Among  the 
courtiers  of  Elizabeth  had  lately  appeared  a new  favorite, 
young,  noble,  wealthy,  accomplished,  eloquent,  brave,  gen- 
erous, aspiring ; a favorite  who  had  obtained  from  the  gray- 
headed Queen  such  marks  of  regard  as  she  had  scarce  vouch- 
safed to  Leicester  in  the  season  of  the  passions;  who  was 
at  once  the  ornament  of  the  palace  and  the  idol  of  the  city ; 
who  was  the  common  patron  of  men  of  letters  and  of  men 
of  the  sword ; who  was  the  common  refuge  of  the  persecuted 
Catholic  and  of  the  persecuted  Puritan.  The  calm  pru- 
dence which  had  enabled  Burleigh  to  shape  his  course 
through  so  many  dangers,  and  the  vast  experience  which  he 
had  acquired  in  dealing  with  two  generations  of  colleagues 
and  rivals,  seemed  scarcely  sufficient  to  support  him  in  this 
new  competition  ; and  Robert  Cecil  sickened  with  fear  and 
envy  as  he  contemplated  the  rising  fame  and  influence  of 
Essex. 

The  history  of  the  factions  which,  towards  the  close  of 
the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  divided  her  court  and  her  council, 
though  pregnant  with  instruction,  is  by  no  means  interest- 
ing or  pleasing.  Both  parties  employed  the  means  which 
are  familiar  to  unscrupulous  statesmen ; and  neither  had,  or 
even  pretended  to  have,  any  important  end  in  view.  The 
public  mind  was  then  reposing  from  one  great  effort,  and 
collecting  strength  for  another.  That  impetuous  and  ap- 
palling rush  with  which  the  human  intellect  had  moved  for- 
ward in  the  career  of  truth  and  liberty,  during  the  fifty 
years  which  followed  the  separation  of  Luther  from  the 


Lord  bacon. 


101 


communion  of  the  Church  of  Rome,  was  now  over  The 
boundary  between  Protestantism  and  Popery  had  been  fixed 
very  nearly  where  it  still  remains.  England,  Scotland,  the 
Northern  kingdoms  were  on  one  side  ; Ireland,  Spain,  Por- 
tugal, Italy,  on  the  other.  The  line  of  demarcation  ran,  as 
it  still  runs,  through  the  midst  of  the  Netherlands,  of  Ger- 
many, and  of  Switzerland,  dividing  province  from  province, 
electorate  from  electorate,  and  canton  from  canton.  France 
.might  be  considered  as  a debatable  land,  in  which  the  con- 
test was  still  undecided.  Since  that  time,  the  two  religions 
have  done  little  more  than  maintain  their  ground.  A few 
occasional  incursions  have  been  made.  But  the  general 
frontier  remains  the  same.  During  two  hundred  and  fifty 
years  no  great  society  has  risen  up  like  one  man,  and  eman- 
cipated itself  by  one  mighty  effort  from  the  superstition 
of  ages.  This  spectacle  was  common  in  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury. Why  has  it  ceased  to  be  so  ? Why  has  so  violent  a 
movement  Deen  followed  by  so  long  a repose  ? The  doc- 
trines of  the  Reformers  are  not  less  agreeable  to  reason  or 
to  revolution  now  than  formerly.  The  public  mind  is  as- 
suredly not  less  enlightened  now  than  formerly.  Why  is  it 
that  Protestantism,  after  carrying  everything  before  it  in  a 
time  of  comparatively  little  knowledge  and  little  freedom, 
should  make  no  perceptible  progress  in  a reasoning  and  tol- 
erant age ; that  the  Luthers,  the  Calvins,  the  Knoxes,  the 
Zwinglcs,  should  have  left  no  successors  ; that  during  two 
centuries  and  a half  fewer  converts  should  have  been  brought 
over  from  the  Church  of  Rome  than  at  the  time  of  the  Ref- 
ormation were  sometimes  gained  in  a year  ? This  has  al- 
. ways  appeared  to  us  one  of  the  mo*t  curious  and  interesting 
problems  in  history.  On  some  future  occasion  we  may  per- 
haps attempt  to  solve  it.  At  present  it  is  enough  to  say 
that,  at  the  close  of  Elizabeth’s  reign,  the  Protestant  party, 
1 o borrow  the  language  of  the  Apocalypse,  had  left  its  first 
love  and  had  ceased  to  do  its  first  works. 

The  great  struggle  of  the  sixteenth  century  was  over. 
The  great  struggle  of  the  seventeenth  century  had  not  com- 
menced. The  coiifessors  of  Mary’s  reign  were  dead.  The 
members  of  the  Long  Parliament  were  still  in  their  cradles. 
The  Papists  had  been  deprived  of  all  power  in  the  state. 
The  Puritans  ];  u not  yet  attained  any  formidable  extent  of 
power.  True  it  is  that  a student,  well  acquainted  with  the 
history  of  the  next  generation,  can  easily  discern  in  the  pro- 
ceedings of  the  Parliament*  of  Elizabeth  the  germ  of  great 
You  lit— ll 


162  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

and  ever  memorable  events.  But  to  the  eye  of  a contem- 
porary nothing  of  this  appeared.  The  two  sections  of  am- 
bitious men  who  were  struggling  for  power  differed  from 
each  other  on  no  important  public  question.  Both  belonged 
to  the  Established  Church.  Both  professed  boundless  loy- 
alty to  the  Queen.  Both  approved  the  war  with  Spain. 
There  is  not,  so  far  as  we  are  aware,  any  reason  to  believe 
that  they  entertained  different  views  concerning  the  succes- 
sion of  the  Crown.  Certainly  neither  faction  had  any  great 
measure  of  reform  in  view.  Neither  attempted  to  redress 
any  public  grievance.  The  most  odious  and  pernicious 
grievance  under  which  the  nation  then  suffered  was  a source 
of  profit  to  both,  and  was  defended  by  both  with  equal 
zeal.  Raleigh  held  a monopoly  of  cards,  Essex  a monopoly 
of  sweet  wines.  In  fact,  the  only  ground  of  quarrel  be- 
tween the  parties  was  that  they  could  not  agree  as  to  their 
respective  shares  of  power  and  patronage. 

Nothing  in  the  political  conduct  of  Essex  entitles  him 
to  esteem ; and  the  pity  with  which  we  regard  his  early  and 
terrible  end  is  diminished  by  the  consideration,  that  he  put 
to  hazard  the  lives  and  fortunes  of  his  most  attached  friends, 
and  endeavored  to  throw  the  whole  country  into  confusion, 
for  objects  purely  personal.  Still,  it  is  impossible  not  to  be 
deeply  interested  for  a man  so  brave,  high-spirited  and  gen- 
erous ; for  a man  who,  while  he  conducted  himself  towards 
his  sovereign  with  a boldness  such  as  was  then  found  in  no 
other  subject,  conducted  himself  towards  his  dependents 
with  a delicacy  such  as  has  rarely  been  found  in  any  other 
patron.  Unlike  the  vulgar  herd  of  benefactors,  he  desired 
to  inspire,  not  gratitude,  but  affection.  He  tried  to  make 
those  whom  he  befriended  feel  towards  him  as  towards  an 
equal.  His  mind,  ardent,  susceptible,  naturally  disposed  to 
admiration  of  all  that  is  great  and  beautiful,  was  fascinated 
by  the  genius  and  accomplishments  of  Bacon.  A close 
friendship  was  soon  formed  between  them,  a friendship  des- 
tined to  have  a dark,  a mournful,  a shameful  end. 

In  1594  the  office  of  Attorney-General  became  vacant, 
and  Bacon  hoped  to  obtain  it.  Essex  made  his  friend’s 
cause  his  own,  sued,  expostulated,  promised,  threatened, 
but  all  in  vain.  It  is  probable  that  the  dislike  felt  by  the 
Cecils  for  Bacon  had  been  increased  by  the  connection 
which  he  had  lately  formed  with  the  Earl.  Robert  was 
then  on  the  point  of  being  made  Secretary  of  State.  He 
Happened  one  day  to  be  iu  the  same  coach  with  Essex,  and 


Lord  bacoSt. 


163 


a remarkable  conversation  took  place  between  them.  “ My 
Lord,”  said  Sir  Robert,  “ the  Queen  has  determined  to  appoint 
an  Attorney-General  without;  more  delay.  I pray  your 
Lordship  to  let  me  know  whom  you  will  favor.”  “I  won- 
der at  your  question,”  replied  the  Earl.  “ You  cannot  but 
know  that  resolutely,  against  all  the  world,  I stand  for  your 
cousin,  Francis  Bacon.”  “ Good  Lord ! ” cried  Cecil,  un- 
able to  bridle  his  temper,  “ I wonder  your  Lordship  should 
spend  your  strength  on  so  unlikely  a matter.  Can  you 
name  one  precedent  of  so  raw  a youth  promoted  to  so  great 
a place?”  This  objection  came  with  a singularly  bad  grace 
from  a man  who,  though  younger  than  Bacon,  was  in  daily 
expectation  of  being  made  Secretary  of  State.  The  blot 
was  too  obvious  to  be  missed  by  Essex,  who  seldom  forbore 
to  speak  his  mind.  “I  have  made  no  search,”  said  he,  “ for 
precedents  of  young  men  who  have  filled  the  office  of  Attor- 
ney-General. But  I could  name  to  you,  Sir  Robert,  a man 
younger  than  Francis,  less  learned,  and  equally  inexperi- 
enced, who  is  suing  and  striving  with  all  his  might  for  an 
office  of  far  greater  weight.”  Sir  Robert  had  nothing  to 
say  but  that  he  thought  his  own  abilities  equal  to  the  place 
which  he  hoped  to  obtain,  and  that  his  father’s  long  services 
deserved  such  a mark  of  gratitude  from  the  Queen ; as  if 
his  abilities  were  comparable  to  his  cousin’s,  or  as  if  Sir 
Nicholas  Bacon  had  done  no  service  to  the  State.  Cecil 
then  hinted  that,  if  Bacon  would  be  satisfied  with  the  Solici- 
torship,  that  might  be  of  easier  digestion  to  the  Queen. 
“ Digest  me  no  digestions,”  said  the  generous  and  ardent 
Earl.  “ The  Attorneyship  for  Francis  is  that  I must  have  ; 
and  in  that  I will  spend  all  my  power,  might,  author- 
ity, and  amity,  and  with  tooth  and  nail  procure  the  same 
for  him  against  whomsoever ; and  whosoever  getteth  this 
office  out  of  my  hands  for  any  other,  before  he  have  it,  it 
shall  cost  him  the  coming  by.  And  this  be  you  assured  of, 
Sir  Robert,  for  now  I fully  declare  myself  ; and  for  my  own 
part,  Sir  Robert,  I think  strange  both  of  my  Lord  Treas- 
urer and  you,  that  can  have  the  mind  to  seek  the  prefer- 
ence of  a stranger  before  so  near  a kinsman  ; for  if  you 
weigh  in  a balance  the  parts  every  way  of  his  competitor 
and  him,  only  excepting  five  poor  years  of  admitting  to  a 
house  of  court  before  Francis,  you  shall  find  in  all  other 
respects  whatsoever  no  comparison  between  them.” 

When  the  office  of  Attorney-General  was  filled  up,  the 
Bari  pressed  the  Queen  to  make  Bacon  Solicitor-General, 


1 64  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

find,  on  this  occasion,  the  old  Lord  Treasurer  professed  him- 
self not  unfavorable  to  his  nephew’s  pretensions.  But,  after 
a contest  which  lasted  more  than  a year  and  a half,  and  in 
which  Essex,  to  use  his  own  words,  “ spent  all  his  power, 
might,  authority,  and  amity,”  the  place  was  given  to 
another.  Essex  felt  this  disappointment  keenly,  but  found 
consolation  in  the  most  munificent  and  delicate  liberality. 
He  presented  Bacon  with  an  estate  worth  near  two  thou- 
sand pounds,  situated  at  Twickenham ; and  this,  as  Bacon 
owned  many  years  after,  “ with  so  kind  and  noble  circum- 
stances as  the  manner  was  w^orth  more  than  the  matter.” 

It  was  soon  after  these  events  that  Bacon  first  appeared 
before  the  public  as  a writer.  Early  in  1597  he  published  a 
small  volume  of  Essays,  which  was  afterwards  enlarged  by 
successive  additions  to  many  times  its  original  bulk.  This 
little  work  was,  as  it  well  deserved  to  be,  exceedingly  popu- 
lar. It  was  reprinted  in  a few  months,  it  was  translated  into 
Latin,  French,  and  Italian;  and  it  seems  to  have  at  once 
established  the  literary  reputation  of  its  author.  But, 
though  Bacon’s  reputation  rose,  his  fortunes  were  still 
depressed.  He  was  in  great  pecuniary  difficulties;  and  on 
one  occasion,  was  arrested  in  the  street  at  the  suit  of  a 
goldsmith  for  a debt  of  three  hundred  pounds,  and  was 
carried  to  a spunging-house  in  Coleman  Street. 

The  kindness  of  Essex  was  in  the  mean  time  indefatigable. 
In  1596  he  sailed  on  his  memorable  expedition  to  the  coast 
of  Spain.  At  the  very  moment  of  his  embarkation,  he 
wrote  to  several  of  his  friends,  commending  to  them,  during 
his  own  absence,  the  interests  of  Bacon.  He  returned,  after 
nerforming  the  most  brilliant  military  exploit  that  was 
achieved  on  the  Continent  by  English  arms  during  the  long 
interval  which  elapsed  between  the  battle  of  Agincourt  and 
that  of  Blenheim.  His  valor,  his  talents,  his  humane  and  gen- 
erous disposition,  had  made  him  the  idol  of  his  countrymen, 
and  had  extorted  praise  from  the  enemies  whom  he  had  con- 
quered.* He  had  always  been  proud  and  headstrong ; and 
Ids  splendid  success  seems  to  have  rendered  his  faults  more 
offensive  than  ever.  But  to  his  friend  Francis  he  wTas  stiil 
the  same.  Bacon  had  some  thoughts  of  making  his  fortune 
by  marriage,  and  had  begun  to  pay  court  to  a widow  of  the 
name  of  Hatton.  The  eccentric  manners  and  violent  temper 
of  this  woman  made  her  a disgrace  and  a torment  to  her 


♦See  Cervantes’s  Novela  de  la  Esjiattola  lngleta . 


LOUD  BACON* 


165 


connections.  But  Bacon  was  not  aware  of  her  faults,  or 
was  disposed  to  overlook  them  for  the  sake  of  her  ample 
fortune.  Essex  pleaded  his  friend’s  cause  with  his  usual 
ardor.  The  letters  which  the  Earl  addressed  to  Lady 
Hatton  and  to  her  mother  are  still  extant,  and  are  highly 
honorable  to  him.  “ If,”  he  wrote,  “ she  were  my  sister  or 
ray  daughter,  I protest  I would  as  confidently  resolve  to 
further  it  as  I now  persuade  you ; ” and  again,  “ if  my  faith 
be  anything,  I protest,  if  I had  one  as  near  me  as  she  is  to 
you,  I had  rather  match  her  witli  him,  than  with  men  of 
far  greater  titles.”  The  suit,  happily  for  Bacon,  was  un 
successful.  The  lady  indeed  was  kind  to  him  in  more  ways 
than  one.  She  rejected  him ; and  she  accepted  his  enemy. 
She  married  that  narrow-minded,  bad-hearted  pedant,  Sir 
Edward  Coke,  and  did  her  best  to  make  him  as  miserable 
as  he  deserved  to  be. 

The  fortunes  of  Essex  had  now  reached  their  height,  and 
began  to  decline.  He  possessed  indeed  all  the  qualities 
which  raise  men  to  greatness  rapidly.  But  he  had  neither 
the  virtues  or  the  vices  which  enable  men  to  retain  great- 
ness long.  His  frankness,  his  keen  sensibility  to  insult  and 
injustice  were  by  no  means  agreeable  to  a sovereign  natur- 
ally impatient  of  opposition,  and  accustomed,  during  forty 
years,  to  the  most  extravagant  flattery  and  the  most  abject 
submission.  The  daring  and  contemptuous  manner  in 
which  he  bade  defiance  to  his  enemies  excited  their  deadly 
hatred.  His  administration  in  Ireland  was  unfortunate, 
and  in  many  respects  highly  blamable.  Though  his  brilliant 
courage  and  his  impetuous  activity  fitted  him  admirably 
for  such  enterprises  as  that  of  Cadiz,  he  did  not  possess  the 
caution,  patience,  and  resolution  necessary  for  the  conduct 
of  a protracted  war,  in  which  difficulties  were  to  be  grad- 
ually surmounted,  in  which  much  discomfort  was  to  be 
endured  and  in  which  few  splendid  exploits  could  be 
achieved.  For  the  civil  duties  of  his  high  place  he  was 
still  less  qualified.  Though  eloquent  and  accomplished,  he 
was  in  no  sense  a statesman.  The  multitude  indeed  still 
continued  to  regard  even  his  faults  with  fondness.  But  the 
Court  had  ceased  to  give  him  credit,  even  for  the  merit 
which  he  really  possessed.  The  person  on  whom,  during 
the  decline  of  his  influence,  he  chiefly  depended,  to  whom 
he  confided  his  perplexities,  whose  advice  he  solicited, 
whose  intercession  he  employed,  was  his  friend  Bacon. 
The  lamentable  truth  must  be  told,  This  friend,  sq  Igyed, 


166 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


bo  trusted,  bore  a principal  part  in  ruining  the  Earl’s  for- 
tunes, in  shedding  his  blood,  and  in  blackening  his  memory. 

But  let  us  be  just  to  Bacon.  We  believe  that,  to  the 
last,  he  had  no  wish  to  injure  Essex.  Nay,  we  believe  that 
he  sincerely  exerted  himself  to  serve  Essex,  as  long  as  he 
thought  he  could  serve  Essex  without  injuring  himself.  The 
advice  which  he  gave  to  his  noble  benefactor  was  generally 
most  judicious.  He  did  all  in  his  power  to  dissuade  the 
Earl  from  accepting  the  Government  of  Ireland.  “ For,” 
says  he,  “ I did  as  plainly  see  his  overthrow  chained  as  it 
were  by  destiny  to  that  journey,  as  it  is  possible  for  a man 
to  ground  a judgment  upon  future  contingents.”  The  pre- 
diction was  accomplished.  Essex  returned  in  disgrace. 
Bacon  attempted  to  mediate  between  his  friend  and  the 
Queen  ; and,  we  believe,  honestly  employed  all  his  address 
for  that  purpose.  But  the  task  which  he  had  undertaken 
was  too  difficult,  delicate,  and  perilous,  even  for  so  wary 
and  dexterous  an  agent.  He  had  to  manage  two  spirits 
equally  proud,  resentful,  and  ungovernable.  At  Essex 
House  he  had  to  calm  the  rage  of  a young  hero  incensed  by 
multiplied  wrongs  and  humiliations,  and  then  to  pass  to 
Whitehall  for  the  purpose  of  soothing  the  peevishness  of  a 
sovereign,  whose  temper,  never  very  gentle,  had  been  ren- 
dered  morbidly  irritable  by  age,  by  declining  health,  and  by 
the  long  habit  of  listening  to  flattery  and  exacting  implicit 
obedience.  It  is  hard  to  serve  two  masters.  Situated  as 
Bacon  was,  it  was  scarcely  possible  for  him  to  shape  his 
course  so  as  not  to  give  one  or  both  of  his  employers  reason 
to  complain.  For  a time  he  acted  as  fairly  as,  in  circum- 
stances so  embarrassing,  could  reasonably  be  expected.  At 
length  he  found  that,  while  he  was  trying  to  prop  the  for- 
tunes of  another,  he  was  in  danger  of  shaking  his  own.  He 
had  disobliged  both  the  parties  whom  he  wished  to  reconcile. 
Essex  thought  him  wanting  in  duty  as  a friend  : Elizabeth 
thought  him  wanting  in  duty  as  a subject.  The  Earl  looked 
on  him  as  a spy  of  the  Queen  ; the  Queen  as  a creature  of 
the  Earl.  The  reconciliation  which  he  had  labored  to  effect 
appeared  utterly  hopeless.  A thousand  signs,  legible  to 
eyes  far  less  keen  than  his,  announced  that  the  fall  of  his 
patron  was  at  hand.  He  shaped  his  course  accordingly. 
When  Essex  was  brought  before  the  council  to  answer  for 
his  conduct  in  Ireland,  Bacon,  after  a faint  attempt  to  ex- 
cuse himself  from  taking  part  against  his  friend,  submitted 
himself  to  the  Queen’s  pleasure,  and  appeared  at  the  bar  in 


LORD  BACON. 


167 


support  of  the  charges.  But  a darker  scene  was  behind. 
The  unhappy  young  nobleman,  made  reckless  by  despair, 
ventured  on  a rash  and  criminal  enterprise,  which  rendered 
him  liable  to  the  highest  penalties  of  the  law.  What  course 
was  Bacon  to  take?  This  was  one  of  those  conjectures 
which  show  what  men  are.  To  a high-minded  man,  wealth, 
power,  court-favor,  even  personal  safety,  would  have  ap- 
peared of  no  account,  when  opposed  to  friendship,  gratitude, 
and  honor.  Such  a man  would  have  stood  by  the  side  of 
Essex  at  the  trial,  would  have  “ spent  all  his  power,  might, 
authority,  and  amity  ” in  soliciting  a mitigation  of  the  sen- 
tence, would  have  been  a daily  visitor  at  the  cell,  would 
have  received  the  last  injunctions  and  the  last  embrace  on 
the  scaffold,  would  have  employed  all  the  powers  of  his  in- 
tellect to  guard  from  insult  the  fame  of  his  generous  though 
erring  friend.  An  ordinary  man  would  neither  have  incurred 
the  danger  of  succoring  Essex,  nor  the  disgrace  of  assailing 
him.  Bacon  did  not  even  preserve  neutrality.  He  appeared 
as  counsel  for  the  prosecution.  In  that  situation  he  did  not 
confine  himself  to  what  would  have  been  amply  sufficient 
to  procure  a verdict.  He  employed  all  his  wit,  his  rhetoric, 
and  his  learning,  not  to  insure  a conviction, — for  the  circum- 
stances were  such  that  a conviction  was  inevitable, — but  to 
deprive  the  unhappy  prisoner  of  all  those  excuses  which, 
though  legally  of  no  value,  yet  tended  to  diminish  the  moral 
guilt  of  the  crime,  and  which,  therefore,  though  they  could 
not  justify  the  peers  in  pronouncing  an  acquittal,  might  in- 
cline the  Queen  to  grant  a pardon.  The  Earl  urged  as  a pal- 
liation of  his  frantic  acts  that  he  was  surrounded  by  powerful 
and  inveterate  enemies,  that  they  had  ruined  his  fortunes, 
that  they  sought  his  life,  and  that  their  persecutions  had 
driven  him  to  despair.  This  was  true ; and  Bacon  well 
kne^y  it  to  be  true.  But  he  affected  to  treat  it  as  an  idle 
pretence.  He  compared  Essex  to  Pisistratus  who,  by  pre- 
tending to  be  in  imminent  danger  of  assassination,  and  by 
exhibiting  self-inflicted  wounds,  succeeded  in  establishing 
tyranny  at  Athens.  This  was  too  much  for  the  prisoner  to 
bear.  lie  interrupted  his  ungrateful  friend  by  calling  on 
him  to  quit  the  part  of  an  advocate,  to  come  forward  as  a 
witness,  and  to  tell  the  Lords  whether,  in  old  times,  he 
Francis  Bacon,  had  not  under  his  own  hand,  repeatedly 
asserted  the  truth  of  what  he  now  represented  as  idle  pre- 
texts. It  is  painful  to  go  on  with  this  lamentable  story. 
Bacon  returned  a shuffling  answer  to  the  Earl’s  question. 


168  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

and,  as  if  the  allusion  to  Pisistratus  were  not  sufficiently 
offensive,  made  another  allusion  still  more  unjustifiable. 
He  compared  Essex  to  Henry  Duke  of  Guise,  and  the  rash 
attempt  in  the  city  to  the  day  of  the  barricades  at  Paris. 
Why  Bacon  had  recourse  to  such  a topic  it  is  difficult  to 
say.  It  was  quite  unnecessary  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining 
a verdict.  It  was  certain  to  produce  a strong  impression 
on  the  mind  of  the  haughty  and  jealous  princess  on  whose 
pleasure  the  Earl’s  fate  depended.  The  faintest  allusion  to 
the  degrading  tutelage  in  which  the  last  Yalois  had  been 
held  by  the  House  of  Lorraine  was  sufficient  to  harden  her 
heart  against  a man  who  in  rank,  in  military  reputation,  in 
popularity  among  the  citizens  of  the  capital,  bore  some  re- 
semblance to  the  Captain  of  the  League. 

Essex  was  convicted.  Bacon  made  no  effort  to  save  him, 
though  the  Queen’s  feelings  were  such  that  he  might  have 
pleaded  his  benefactor’s  cause,  possibly  with  success,  cer- 
tainly without  any  serious  danger  to  himself.  The  unhappy 
nobleman  was  executed.  His  fate  excited  strong,  perhaps 
unreasonable  feelings  of  compassion  and  indignation.  The 
Queen  was  received  by  the  citizens  of  London  with  gloomy 
looks  and  faint  acclamations.  She  thought  it  expedient  to 
publish  a vindication  of  her  late  proceedings.  The  faithless 
friend  who  had  assisted  in  taking  the  Earl’s  life  was  now 
employed  to  murder  the  Earl’s  fame.  The  Queen  had  seen 
some  of  Bacon’s  writings,  and  had  been  pleased  with  them. 
He  was  accordingly  selected  to  write  “A  Declaration  of  the 
Practices  and  Treasons  attempted  and  committed  by  Robert 
Earl  of  Essex,”  which  was  printed  by  authority.  In  the 
succeeding  reign,  Bacon  had  not  a word  to  say  in  defence  of 
this  performance,  a performance  abounding  in  expressions 
which  no  generous  enemy  would  have  employed  respecting 
a man  who  had  so  dearly  expiated  his  offences.  His  only 
excuse  was,  that  he  wrote  it  by  command,  that  he  considered 
himself  as  a mere  secretary,  that  lie  had  particular  instructions 
as  to  the  way  in  which  he  was  to  treat  every  part  of  the 
subject,  and  that,  in  fact,  he  had  furnished  only  the  arrange- 
ment and  the  style. 

We  regret  to  say  that  the  whole  conduct  of  Bacon 
through  the  course  of  these  transactions  appears  to  Mr. 
Montagu  not  merely  excusable,  but  deserving  of  high  admir- 
ation. The  integrity  and  benevolence  of  this  gentleman  are 
■so  well  known  that  our  readers  will  probably  be  at  a loss  to 
coi^eive  by  what  steps  fie  can  have  arrived  at  so  eirtraw 


IOTID  BACOtf* 


169 

dinary  a conclusion ; and  we  are  half  afraid  that  they  will 
suspect  us  of  practising  some  artifice  upon  them  when  we 
report  the  jDrincipal  arguments  which  he  employs. 

In  order  to  get  rid  of  the  charge  of  ingratitude,  Mr.  Mon- 
tagu attempts  to  show  that  Bacon  lay  under  greater  obli- 
gations to  the  Queen  than  to  Essex.  What  these  obligations 
were  it  is  not  easy  to  discover.  The  situation  of  Queen’s 
Counsel,  and  a remote  reversion,  were  surely  favors  very  far 
below  Bacon’s  personal  and  hereditary  claims.  They  were 
favors  which  had  not  cost  the  Queen  a groat,  nor  had  they 
put  a groat  into  Bacon’s  purse.  It  was  necessary  to  rest 
Elizabeth’s  claims  to  gratitude  on  some  other  ground ; and 
this  Mr.  Montagu  felt.  “ What  perhaps  was  her  greatest 
kindness,”  says  he,  “ instead  of  having  hastily  advanced 
Bacon,  she  had,  with  a continuance  of  her  friendship,  made 
him  bear  the  yoke  in  his  youth.  Such  were  his  obligations 
to  Elizabeth.”  Such  indeed  they  were.  Being  the  son  of 
one  of  her  oldest  and  most  faithful  ministers,  being  himself 
the  ablest  and  most  accomplished  young  man  of  his  time,  ho 
had  been  condemned  by  her  to  drudgery,  to  obscurity,  t^ 
poverty.  She  had  depreciated  his  acquirements.  She  had 
checked  him  in  the  most  imperious  manner,  when  in  Parlia- 
ment he  ventured  to  act  an  independent  part.  She  had 
refused  to  him  the  professional  advancement  to  which  he 
had  a just  claim.  To  her  it  was  owing  that,  while  younger 
men,  not  superior  to  him  in  extraction,  and  far  inferior  to 
him  in  every  kind  of  personal  merit,  were  filling  the  highest 
offices  of  the  state,  adding  manor  to  manor,  rearing  palace 
after  palace,  he  was  lying  at  a spunging-house  for  a debt  of 
three  hundred  pounds.  Assuredly  if  Bacon  owed  gratitude 
to  Elizabeth  he  owed  none  to  Essex.  If  the  Queen  really 
was  his  best  friend,  the  Earl  was  his  worst  enemy.  We 
wonder  that  Mr.  Montagu  did  not  press  this  argument  a lit- 
tle further.  He  might  have  maintained  that  Bacon  was  ex- 
cusable in  revenging  himself  on  a man  who  had  attempted 
to  rescue  his  youth  from  the  salutary  yoke  imposed  on  it  by 
the  Queen,  who  had  wished  to  advance  him  hastily,  who, 
not  content  with  attempting  to  inflict  the  Attorney-General- 
ship upon  him,  had  been  so  cruel  as  to  present  him  with  a 
landed  estate. 

Again,  we  can  hardly  think  Mr.  Montagu  serious  when  he 
tells  us  that  Bacon  was  bound  for  the  sake  of  the  public  not 
to  destroy  his  own  hopes  of  advancement  and  that  he  took 
part  against  Essex  from  a wish  to  obtain  power  which  might 


170  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

enable  him  to  be  useful  to  his  country.  We  really  do  not 
know  how  to  refute  such  arguments  except  by  stating  them. 
Nothing  is  impossible  which  does  not  involve  a contradiction. 
It  is  barely  possible  that  Bacon’s  motives  for  acting  as  he 
did  on  this  occasion  may  have  been  gratitude  to  the  Queen 
for  keeping  him  poor,  and  a desire  to  benefit  his  fellow- 
creatures  in  some  high  situation.  And  there  is  a possibility 
that  Bonner  may  have  been  a good  Protestant  who,  being 
convinced  that  the  blood  of  martyrs  is  the  seed  of  the 
Church,  heroically  went  through  all  the  drudgery  and  infamy 
of  persecution,  in  order  that  he  might  inspire  the  English 
people  with  an  intense  and  lasting  hatred  of  Popery,  There 
is  a possibility  that  Jeffreys  may  have  been  an  ardent  lover  of 
liberty,  and  that  he  may  have  beheaded  Algernon  Sydney, 
and  burned  Elizabeth  Gaunt,  only  in  order  to  produce  a re- 
action which  might  lead  to  the  limitation  of  thejwerogative. 
There  is  a possibility  that  Thurtell  may  have  killed  Weare 
only  in  order  to  give  the  youth  of  England  ,an  impressive 
warning  against  gaming  and  bad  company.  There  is  a pos- 
sibility that  Fauntleroy  may  have  forged  powers  of  attorney, 
only  in  order  that  his  fate  might  turn  the  attention  of  the 
public  to  the  defects  of  the  penal  law.  These  things,  we 
say,  are  possible.  But  they  are  so  extravagantly  improbable 
that  a man  who  should  act  on  such  suppositions  would  be  fit 
only  for  Saint  Luke’s.  And  we  do  not  see  why  suppositions 
on  which  no  rational  man  would  act  in  ordinary  life  should 
be  admitted  into  history. 

Mr.  Montagu’s  notion  that  Bacon  desired  power  only  in 
order  to  do  good  to  mankind  appears  somewhat  strange  to 
us,  when  we  consider  how  Bacon  afterwards  used  power,  and 
how  he  lost  it.  Surely  the  service  which  he  rendered  to 
mankind  by  taking  Lady  Wharton’s  broad  pieces  and  Sir 
John  Kennedy’s  cabinet  was  not  of  such  vast  importance  as 
to  sanctify  all  the  means  which  might  conduce  to  that  end. 
If  the  case  were  fairly  stated,  it  would,  we  much  fear,  stand 
thus  : Bacon  was  a servile  advocate  that  he  might  be  a cor- 
rupt judge. 

Mr.  Montagu  maintains  that  none  bu*  the  ignorant  and 
unreflecting  can  think  Bacon  censurable  t>r  anything  that  he 
did  as  counsel  for  the  Crown,  and  that  no  advocate  can  jus- 
tifiably use  any  discretion  as  to  the  party  for  whom  he  ap- 
pears. We  will  not  at  present  inquire  whether  the  doctrine 
which  is  held  on  this  subject  by  English  lawyers  be  or  be  not 
agreeable  to  reason  and  morality  whether  it  be  right  that  a 


LORD  BACON. 


171 


mrm  should,  with  a wig  on  his  head,  and  a band  round  his 
neck,  do  for  a guinea  what,  without  those  appendages,  he 
would  think  it  wicked  and  infamous  to  do  for  an  empire ; 
whether  it  be  right  that,  not  merely  believing  but  knowing  a 
statement  to  be  true,  he  should  do  all  that  can  be  done  by 
sophistry,  by  rhetoric,  by  solemn  asseveration,  by  indignant 
exclamation,  by  gesture,  by  play  of  features,  by  terrifying 
one  honest  witness,  by  perplexing  another,  to  cause  a jury 
to  think  that  statement  false.  It  is  not  necessary  on  the 
present  occasion  to  decide  these  questions.  The  professional 
rules,  be  they  good  or  bad,  are  rules  to  which  many  wise  and 
virtuous  men  have  conformed,  and  are  daily  conforming. 
If,  therefore,  Bacon  did  no  more  than  these  rules  required  of 
him,  we  shall  readily  admit  that  he  was  blameless,  or,  at 
least,  excusable.  But  we  conceive  that  his  conduct  was  not 
justifiable,  according  to  any  professional  rules  that  now 
exist,  or  that  ever  existed  in  England.  It  has  always  been 
held  that,  in  criminal  cases  in  which  the  prisoner  was  denied 
the  help  of  counsel,  and,  above  all,  in  capital  cases,  advo- 
cates were  both  entitled  and  bound  to  exercise  a discretion. 
It  is  true  that,  after  the  Revolution,  when  the  Parliament 
began  to  make  inquisition  for  the  innocent  blood  which  had 
been  shed  by  the  last  Stuarts,  a feeble  attempt  was  made  to 
defend  the  lawyers  who  had  been  accomplices  in  the  murder 
of  Sir  Thomas  Armstrong,  on  the  ground  that  they  had  only 
acted  professionally.  The  wretched  sophism  was  silenced 
by  the  execrations  of  the  House  of  Commons.  “ Things 
will  never  be  well  done,”  said  Mr.  Foley,  “ till  some  of  that 
profession  be  made  examples.”  “ We  have  a new  sort  of 
monsters  in  the  world,”  said  the  younger  Hampden,  “ ha- 
ranguing a man  to  death.  These  I call  blood-hounds.  Saw- 
yer is  very  criminal  and  guilty  of  this  murder.”  “ I speak 
to  discharge  my  conscience,”  said  Mr.  Garroway.  “ I will 
not  have  the  blood  of  this  man  at  my  door.  Sawyer  de- 
manded judgment  against  him  and  execution.  I believe  him 
guilty  of  the  death  of  this  man.  Do  what  you  will  with 
him.”  “ If  the  profession  of  the  law,”  said  the  elder  Hamp- 
den, “ gives  a man  authority  to  murder  at  this  rate,  it  is 
the  interest  of  all  men  to  rise  and  exterminate  that  profes- 
sion.” Nor  was  this  language  held  only  by  unlearned  coun- 
try gentlemen.  Sir  William  Williams,  one  of  the  ablest  and 
most  unscrupulous  lawyers  of  the  age,  took  the  same  view 
of  the  case.  He  had  not  hesitated,  he  said,  to  take  part  in 
the  prosecution  of  the  Bishops,  because  they  were  allowed 


172 


macaulat’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


counsel.  But  he  maintained  that,  where  the  prisoner  was 
not  allowed  counsel,  the  Counsel  for  the  Crown  was  bound 
to  exercise  a discretion,  and  that  every  lawyer  who  neglected 
this  distinction  was  a betrayer  of  the  law.  But  it  is  unneces- 
sary to  cite  authority.  It  is  known  to  everybody  who  has 
ever  looked  into  a court  of  quarter-sessions  that  lawyers  do 
eiercise  a discretion  in  criminal  cases ; and  it  is  plain  to 
every  man  of  common  sense  that,  if  they  did  not  exercise 
such  a discretion,  they  would  be  a more  hateful  body  of  men 
than  those  bravoes  who  used  to  hire  out  their  stilettoes  in 
Italy. 

Bacon  appeared  against  a man  who  was  indeed  guilty  of 
a great  offence,  but  who  had  been  his  benefactor  and  friend. 
He  did  more  than  this.  Nay,  he  did  more  than  a person 
wdio  had  never  seen  Essex  would  have  been  justified  in  do- 
ing. He  employed  all  the  art  of  an  advocate  in  order  to 
make  the  prisoner’s  conduct  appear  more  inexcusable  and 
more  dangerous  to  the  state  than  it  really  had  been.  All 
that  professional  duty  could,  in  any  case,  have  required  of 
him  would  have  been  to  conduct  the  cause  so  as  to  insure 
a conviction.  But  from  the  nature  of  the  circumstances 
there  could  not  be  the  smallest  doubt  that  the  Earl  would 
be  found  guilty.  The  character  of  the  crime  was  unequivo- 
cal. It  had  been  committed  recently,  in  broad  daylight,  in 
the  streets  of  the  capital,  in  the  presence  of  thousands.  If 
ever  there  was  an  occasion  on  which  an  advocate  had  no 
temptation  to  resort  to  extraneous  topics,  for  the  purpose  of 
blinding  the  judgment  and  inflaming  the  passions  of  a tri- 
bunal, this  was  that  occasion.  Why  then  resort  to  arguments 
which,  while  they  could  add  nothing  to  the  strength  of  the 
case,  considered  in  a legal  point  of  view,  tended  to  aggra- 
vate the  moral  guilt  of  the  fatal  enterprise,  and  to  excite 
fear  and  resentment  in  that  quarter  from  which  alone  the 
Earl  could  now  expect  mercy  ? W1 


body  knew  to  be  the  truth,  that  a' powerful  faction  at  court 
had  long  sought  to  effect  the  ruin  of  the  prisoner  ? Why, 
above  all,  institute  a parallel  between  the  unhappy  culprit 
and  the  most  wicked  and  most  successful  rebel  of  the  age  ? 
Was  it  absolutely  impossible  to  do  all  that  professional  duty 
required  without  reminding  a jealous  sovereign  of  the 
League,  of  the  barricades,  and  of  all  the  humiliations  which 
a too  powerful  subject  had  heaped  on  Henry  the  Third? 

Jiut  if  we  admit  the  plea  which  Mr.  Montagu  urges  in 


of  the  arts  of  the  ancient  tyrants  ? 


LORD  BACON. 


t73 


defence  of  what  Bacon  did  as  an  advocate,  what  shall  we 
say  of  the  “ Declaration  of  the  Treasons  of  Robert  Earl  of 
Essex?  ” Here  at  least  there  was  no  pretence  of  professional 
obligation.  Even  those  who  may  think  it  the  duty  of  a 
lawyer  to  hang,  draw,  and  quarter  his  benefactors,  for  a 
proper  consideration,  will  hardly  say  that  it  is  his  duty  to 
write  abusive  pamphlets  against  them,  after  they  are  in 
their  graves.  Bacon  excused  himself  by  saying  that  he  was 
not  answerable  for  the  matter  of  the  book,  and  that  he  fur- 
nished only  the  language.  But  why  did  he  endow  such  pur- 
poses with  words  ? Could  no  hack  writer,  without  virtue 
or  shame,  be  found  to  exaggerate  the  errors,  already  so 
dearly  expiated,  of  a gentle  and  noble  spirit  ? Every  age 
produces  those  links  between  the  man  and  the  baboon. 
Every  age  is  fertile  of  Old-mixons,  of  Kenricks,  and  of 
Antony  Pasquins.  But  was  it  for  Bacon  so  to  prostitute 
his  intellect?  Could  he  not  feel  that,  while  he  rounded  and 
pointed  some  period  dictated  by  the  envy  of  Cecil,  or  gave 
a plausible  form  to  some  slander  invented  by  the  dastardly 
malignity  of  Cobham,  he  was  not  sinning  merely  against  his 
friend’s  honor  and  his  own  ? Could  he  not  feel  that  letters, 
eloquence,  philosophy,  were  all  degraded  in  his  degrada- 
tion ? 

The  real  explanation  of  all  this  is  perfectly  obvious ; and 
nothing  but  a partiality  amounting  to  a ruling  passion  could 
cause  anybody  to  miss  it.  The  moral  qualities  of  Bacon 
were  not  of  a high  order.  We  do  not  say  that  he  was  a bad 
man.  He  was  not  inhuman  or  tyrannical.  He  bore  with 
meekness  his  high  civil  honors,  and  the  far  higher  honors 
gained  by  his  intellect.  He  was  very  seldom,  if  ever,  pro- 
voked into  treating  any  person  with  malignity  and  insolence. 
No  man  more  readily  held  up  the  left  cheek  to  those  wdio 
had  smitten  the  right.  No  man  was  more  expert  at  the 
soft  answer  which  turneth  away  wrath.  He  was  never 
charged,  by  any  accuser  entitled  to  the  smallest  credit,  with 
licentious  habits.  His  even  temper,  his  flowing  courtesy, 
the  general  respectability  of  his  demeanor,  made  a favorable 
impression  on  those  who  saw  him  in  situations  which  do  not 
severely  try  the  principles.  His  faults  were — we  write  it 
with  pain — coldness  of  heart  and  meanness  of  spirit.  He 
seems  to  have  been  incapable  of  feeling  strong  affection,  of 
facing  great  dangers,  of  making  great  sacrifices.  His  de- 
sires were  set  on  things  below.  Wealth,  precedence,  titles, 
patronage,  the  mace,  the  seals,  the  coronet,  large  houses, 


174  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings, 

fair  gardens,  rich  manors,  massive  services  of  plate,  gay 
hangings,  curious  cabinets,  had  as  great  attractions  for  him 
as  for  any  of  the  courtiers  who  dropped  on  their  knees  in 
the  dirt  when  Elizabeth  passed  by,  and  then  hastened  home 
to  write  to  the  King  of  Scots  that  her  Grace  seemed  to  be 
breaking  fast.  For  these  objects  he  had  stooped  to  every- 
thing and  endured  everything.  For  these  he  had  sued  in 
the  humblest  manner,  and,  when  unjustly  and  ungraciously 
repulsed,  had  thanked  those  who  had  repulsed  him,  and  had 
begun  to  sue  again.  For  these  objects,  as  soon  as  he  found 
that  the  smallest  show  of  independence  in  Parliament  was 
offensive  to  the  Queen,  he  had  abased  himself  to  the  dust 
before  her,  and  implored  forgiveness  in  terms  better  suited 
to  a convicted  thief  than  to  a knight  of  the  shire.  For  these 
he  joined,  and  for  these  he  forsook,  Lord  Essex.  He  con- 
tinued to  plead  his  patron’s  cause  with  the  Queen  as  long  as 
he  thought  that  by  pleading  that  cause  he  might  serve  him- 
self. Nay,  he  went  further;  for  his  feelings,  though  not 
warm,  were  kind;  he  pleaded  that  cause  as  long  as  he 
thought  that  he  could  plead  it  without  injury  to  himself. 
But  when  it  became  evident  that  Essex  was  going  headlong 
to  his  ruin,  Bacon  began  to  tremble  for  his  own  fortunes. 
What  he  had  to  fear  would  not  indeed  have  been  very 
alarming  to  a man  of  lofty  character.  It  was  not  death. 
It  was  not  imprisonment.  It  was  the  loss  of  court  favor. 
It  was  the  being  left  behind  by  others  in  the  career  of  am- 
bition. It  was  the  having  leisure  to  finish  the  Instauratio 
Magna.  The  Queen  looked  coldly  on  him.  The  courtiers 
began  to  consider  him  as  a marked  man.  He  determined 
to  change  his  line  of  conduct,  and  to  proceed  in  a new  course 
with  so  much  vigor  as  to  make  up  for  lost  time.  When 
once  he  had  determined  to  act  against  his  friend,  know- 
ing himself  to  be  suspected,  he  acted  with  more  zeal  than 
would  have  been  necessary  or  justifiable  if  he  had  been  em- 
ployed against  a stranger.  He  exerted  his  professional 
talents  to  shed  the  Earl’s  blood,  and  his  literary  talents  to 
blacken  the  Earl’s  memory. 

It  is  certain  that  his  conduct  excited  at  the  time  great 
and  general  disapprobation.  While  Elizabeth  lived,  indeed, 
this  disapprobation,  though  deeply  felt,  was  not  loudly  ex- 
pressed. But  a great  change  was  at  hand.  The  health  of 
the  Queen  had  long  been  decaying;  and  the  operation  of 
age  and  disease  was  now  assisted  by  acute  mental  suffering. 
The  pitiable  melancholy  of  her  last  days  has  generally  been 


LORD  BACOK. 


175 


ascribed  to  her  fond  regret  for  Essex.  But  we  are  disposed 
to  attribute  her  dejection  partly  to  physical  causes,  and 
partly  to  the  conduct  of  her  courtiers  and  ministers.  They 
did  all  in  their  power  to  conceal  from  her  the  intrigues  which 
they  were  carrying  on  at  the  Court  of  Scotland.  But  her 
keen  sagacity  was  not  to  be  so  deceived.  She  did  not  know 
the  whole.  But  she  knew  she  was  surrounded  by  men  who 
were  impatient  for  that  new  world  which  was  to  begin  at 
her  death,  who  had  never  been  attached  to  her  by  affection, 
and  who  were  now  but  very  slightly  attached  to  her  by 
interest.  Prostration  and  flattery  could  not  conceal  from 
her  the  cruel  truth,  that  those  whom  she  had  trusted  and 
promoted  had  never  loved  her,  and  were  fast  ceasing  to  fear 
her.  Unable  to  avenge  herself,  and  too  proud  to  complain, 
she  suffered  sorrow  and  resentment  to  prey  on  her  heart, 
till,  after  a long  career  of  power,  prosperity,  and  glory,  she 
died  sick  and  weary  of  the  world. 

James  mounted  the  throne  : and  Bacon  employed  all  his 
address  to  obtain  for  himself  a share  of  the  favor  of  his  new 
master.  This  was  no  difficult  task.  The  faults  of  James, 
both  as  a man  and  as  a prince,  were  numerous  ; but  insensi- 
bility to  the  claims  of  genius  and  learning  was  not  among 
them.  He  was  indeed  made  up  of  two  men,  a witty,  well- 
read  scholar,  who  wrote,  disputed  and  harangued,  and  a 
nervous,  drivelling  idiot,  who  acted.  If  he  had  been  a Canon 
of  Christ  Church,  or  a Prebendary  of  Westminster,  it  is  not 
improbable  that  he  would  have  left  a highly  respectable 
name  to  posterity ; that  he  would  have  distinguished  him- 
self among  the  translators  of  the  Bible,  and  among  the 
Divines  who  attended  the  Synod  of  Dort ; and  that  he 
would  have  been  regarded  by  the  literary  world  as  no  con- 
temptible rival  of  Vossius  and  Casaubon.  But  fortune 
placed  him  in  a situation  in  which  his  weaknesses  covered 
him  with  disgrace,  and  in  which  his  accomplishments  brought 
him  no  honor.  In  a college,  much  eccentricity  and  childish- 
ness would  have  been  readily  pardoned  in  so  learned  a mam 
But  all  that  learning  could  do  for  him  on  the  throne  w^as  to 
make  people  think  him  a pedant  as  well  as  a fool. 

Bacon  was  favorably  received  at  Court ; and  soon  found 
that  his  chance  of  promotion  was  not  diminished  by  the 
death  of  the  Queen.  He  was  solicitous  to  be  knighted,  for 
two  reasons  which  are  somewhat  amusing.  The  King  had 
already  dubbed  half  London,  and  Bacon  found  himself  the 
only  untitled  person  in  his  mess  at  Gray’s  Inn.  This  was 


176 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  waitings* 


not  very  agreeable  to  him.  He  had  also,  to  quote  his  oWft 
words,  “ found  an  Alderman’s  daughter,  a handsome  maiden, 
to  his  liking.”  On  both  these  grounds,  he  begged  his  cousin 
Robert  Cecil,  “ if  it  might  please  his  good  Lordship,”  to  use 
his  interest  in  his  behalf.  The  application  was  successful. 
Bacon  was  one  of  three  hundred  gentlemen  who,  on  the 
coronation-day,  received  the  honor,  if  it  is  to  be  so  called, 
of  knighthood.  The  handsome  maiden,  a daughter  of  Aider- 
man  Barnham,  soon  after  consented  to  become  Sir  Francis’s 
lady. 

The  death  of  Elizabeth,  though  on  the  whole  it  improved 
Bacon’s  prospects,  was  in  one  respect  an  unfortunate  event 
for  him.  The  new  King  had  always  felt  kindly  towards 
Lord  Essex,  and,  as  soon  as  he  came  to  the  throne,  began  to 
show  favor  to  the  house  of  Devereux,  and  to  those  who  had 
stood  by  that  house  in  its  adversity.  Everybody  was  now 
at  liberty  to  speak  out  respecting  those  lamentable  events  in 
which  Bacon  had  borne  so  large  a share.  Elizabeth  was 
scarcely  cold  when  the  public  feeling  began  to  manifest 
itself  by  marks  of  respect  towards  Lord  Southampton.  That 
accomplished  nobleman,  who  will  be  remembered  to  the 
latest  ages  as  the  generous  and  discerning  patron  of  Shak- 
speare,  was  held  in  honor  by  his  contemporaries  chiefly  on 
account  of  the  devoted  affection  which  he  had  borne  to 
Essex.  He  had  been  tried  and  convicted  together  wdth  his 
friend ; but  the  Queen  had  spared  his  life,  and,  at  the  time 
of  her  death,  he  was  still  a prisoner.  A crowd  of  visitors 
hastened  to  the  Tower  to  congratulate  him  on  his  approach- 
ing deliverance.  With  that  crowd  Bacon  could  not  venture 
to  mingle.  The  multitude  loudly  condemned  him ; and  his 
conscience  told  him  that  the  multitude  had  but  too  much 
reason.  He  excused  himself  to  Southampton  by  letter,  in 
terms  which,  if  lie  had,  as  Mr.  Montagu  conceives,  done  only 
what  as  a subject  and  an  advocate  he  was  bound  to  do,  must 
be  considered  as  shamefully  servile.  lie  owns  his  fear  that 
his  attendance  would  give  offence,  and  that  his  professions 
of  regard  would  obtain  no  credit.  “ Yet,”  says  he,  “ it  is  as 
true  as  a thing  that  God  knoweth,  that  this  great  change 
hath  wrought  in  me  no  other  change  towards  your  Lordship 
than  this,  that  I may  safely  be  that  to  you  now  which  I was 
truly  before.” 

How  Southampton  received  these  apologies  we  are  not 
informed.  But  it  is  certain  that  the  general  opinion  was 
pronounced  against  Bacon  in  a manner  not  to  be  misunder- 


LO my  bacons 


m 


stood.  Soon  after  his  marriage  he  put  forth  a defence  of 
his  conduct,  in  the  form  of  a letter  to  the  Earl  of  Devon. 
This  tract  seems  to  us  to  prove  only  the  exceeding  badness 
of  a cause  for  which  such  talents  could  do  so  little. 

It  is  not  probable  that  Bacon’s  Defence  had  much  effect 
on  his  contemporaries.  But  the  unfavorable  impression 
which  his  conduct  had  made  appears  to  have  been  gradually 
effaced.  Indeed  it  must  be  some  very  peculiar  cause  that 
can  make  a man  like  him  long  unpopular.  His  talents 
secured  him  from  contempt,  his  temper  and  his  manners 
from  hatred.  There  is  scarcely  any  story  so  black  that  it 
may  not  be  got  over  by  a man  of  great  abilities,  whose  abil- 
ities are  united  with  caution,  good-humor,  patience,  and 
affability,  who  pays  daily  sacrifice  to  Nemesis,  who  is  a 
delightful  companion,  a serviceable  though  not  an  ardent 
friend,  and  a dangerous  yet  a placable  enemy.  Waller  in 
the  next  generation  was  an  eminent  instance  of  this.  Indeed 
Waller  had  much  more  than  may  at  first  sight  appear  in 
common  with  Bacon.  To  the  higher  intellectual  qualities 
of  the  great  English  philosopher,  to  the  genius  which  has 
made  an  immortal  epoch  in  the  history  of  science,  Waller 
had  indeed  no  pretensions.  But  the  mind  of  Waller,  as  far 
as  it  extended,  coincided  with  that  of  Bacon,  and  might,  so 
to  speak,  have  been  cut  out  of  that  of  Bacon.  In  the  quali- 
ties which  make  a man  an  object  of  interest  and  veneration 
to  posterity,  they  cannot  he  compared  together.  But  in 
the  qualities  by  which  chiefly  a man  is  known  to  his  contem- 
poraries there  was  a striking  similarity  between  them. 
Considered  as  men  of  the  world,  as  courtiers,  as  politicians, 
as  associates,  as  allies,  as  enemies,  they  had  nearly  the  same 
merits,  and  the  same  defects.  They  were  not  malignant. 
They  were  not  tyrannical.  But  they  wanted  warmth  of 
affection  and  elevation  of  sentiment.  There  were  many 
things  which  they  loved  better  than  virtue,  and  which  they 
feared  more  than  guilt.  Yet,  even  after  they  had  stooped 
to  acts  of  which  it  is  impossible  to  read  the  account  in  the 
most  partial  narratives  without  strong  disapprobation  and 
contempt,  the  public  still  continued  to  regard  them  with  a 
feeling  not  easily  to  be  distinguished  from  esteem.  The 
hyperbole  of  Juliet  seemed  to  be  verified  with  respect  to 
them.  “ Upon  their  brows  shame  was  ashamed  to  sit.’" 
Everybody  seemed  as  desirous  to  throw  a veil  over  thei^ 
misconduct  as  if  it  had  been,  his  own.  Clarendon,  who  felV, 
and  who  had  reason  to  feel,  strorg  personal  dislike  towards 

Tax,.  II.— 12 


178 


macaflay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


Waller,  speaks  of  him  thus : “ There  needs  no  more  to  be 
said  to  extol  the  excellence  and  power  of  his  wit  and 
pleasantness  of  his  conversation,  than  that  it  was  of  magni 
tude  enough  to  cover  a world  of  very  great  faults,  that  is,  so 
to  cover  them  that  they  were  not  taken  notice  of  to  his  re- 
proach, viz*  a narrowness  in  his  nature  to  the  lowest  degree, 
an  abjectness  and  t^ant  of  courage  to  support  him  in  any 
virtuous  undertaking,  an  insinuation  and  servile  flattery  to 
the  height  the  vainest  and  most  imperious  nature  could  bo 
contented  with.  * * * It  had  power  to  reconcile  him  to  those 
whom  he  had  most  offended  and  provoked,  and  continued 
tc  his  age  with  that  rare  felicity,  that  his  company  was  ac- 
ceptable where  his  spirit  was  odious,  and  he  was  at  least 
pitied  where  he  was  most  detested.”  Much  of  this,  with 
some  softening,  might,  we  fear,  be  applied  to  Bacon.  The 
influence  of  Waller’s  talents,  manners  and  accomplishments, 
died  with  him  ; and  the  world  has  pronounced  an  unbiassed 
sentence  on  his  character.  A few  flowing  lines  are  not  bribe 
sufficient  to  pervert  the  judgment  of  posterity.  But  the  in- 
fluence of  Bacon  is  felt  and  will  long  be  felt  over  the  whole 
civilized  world.  Leniently  as  he  _ was  treated  by  his  con- 
temporaries, posterity  has  treated  him  more  leniently  still. 
Turn  where  we  may,  the  trophies  of  that  mighty  intellect 
are  full  in  view.  We  are  judging  Manlius  in  sight  of  the 
Capitol. 

Under  the  reign  of  James,  Bacon  grew  rapidly  in  for- 
tune and  favor.  In  1604  he  was  appointed  King’s  Counsel, 
with  a fee  of  forty  pounds  a year  ; and  a pension  of  sixty 
pounds  a year  was  settled  upon  him.  In  1607  he  became 
Solicitor-Generai,  in  1612  Attorney-General.  He  continued 
to  distinguish  himself  in  Parliament,  particularly  by  his  ex- 
ertions in  favor  of  one  excellent  measure  on  which  the 
King’s  heart  was  set,  the  union  of  England  and  Scotland. 
It  was  not  difficult  for  such  an  intellect  to  discover  many 
irresistible  arguments  in  favor  of  such  a scheme.  He  con- 
ducted the  great  case  of  the  Post  Nati  in  the  Exchequer 
Chamber ; and  the  decision  of  the  judges,  a decision  the 
legality  of  which  may  be  questioned,  but  the  beneficial  effect 
of  which  must  be  acknowledged,  was  in  a great  measure  at- 
tributed to  his  dexterous  management.  While  actively  en- 
gaged in  the  House  of  commons  and  in  the  courts  of  law, 
he  still  found  leisure  for  letters  and  philosophy.  The  noble? 
treatise  on  the  “ Advancement  of  Learning,”  which  at  a later 
period  was  expanded  into  the  JJe  Augment is,  appeared  in 


LORD  BAOO^. 


179 


><505,  The  a Wisdom  of  the  Ancients,”  a work  which,  if  it 
had  proceeded  from  any  other  writer,  would  have  been  con- 
sidered as  a masterpiece  of  wit  and  learning,  but  which  adds 
little  to  the  fame  of  Bacon, was  printed  in  1609.  In  the  mean 
time  the  Novum  Organum  was  slowly  proceeding.  Several 
distinguished  men  of  learning  had  been  permitted  to  seo 
sketches  or  detached  portions  of  that  extraordinary  book ; 
and,  though  they  were  not  generally  disposed  to  admit  the 
soundness  of  the  author’s  views,  they  spoke  with  the  greatest 
admiration  of  his  genius.  Sir  Thomas  Bodley,  the  founder 
of  one  of  the  most  magnificent  of  English  libraries,  was 
among  those  stubborn  Conservatives  who  considered  the 
hopes  with  which  Bacon  looked  forward  to  the  future  des- 
tinies of  the  human  race  as  utterly  chimerical,  and  who  re- 
garded with  distrust  and  aversion  the  innovating  spirit  of 
the  new  schismatics  in  philosojdiy.  Yet  even  Bodley,  after 
perusing  the  Cogitata  et  Visa,  one  of  the  most  precious  of 
those  scattered  leaves  out  of  which  the  great  oracular  vol- 
ume was  afterwards  made  up,  acknowledges  that  in  “ those 
very  points,  and  in  all  proposals  and  plots  in  that  book,  Bacon 
showed  himself  a master-workman ; ” and  that  “ it  could  not 
be  gainsaid  but  all  the  treatise  over  did  abound  with  choice 
conceits  of  the  present  state  of  learning,  and  with  worthy 
contemplation  of  the  means  to  procure  it.”  In  1612,  a new 
edition  of  the  “ Essays  ” appeared,  with  additions  surpass- 
ing the  original  collection  both  in  bulk  and  quality.  Nor 
did  these  pursuits  distract  Bacon’s  attention  from  a work  the 
most  arduous,  the  most  glorious,  and  the  most  useful  that 
even  his  mighty  powers  could  have  achieved,  “ the  reducing 
and  recompiling,”  to  use  his  own  phrase,  “of  the  laws  of 
England.” 

Unhappily  he  was  at  that  very  time  employed  in  pervert- 
ing those  laws  to  the  vilest  purposes  of  tyranny.  When 
Oliver  St.  John  was  brought  before  the  Star  Chamber  for 
maintaining  that  the  King  had  no  right  to  levy  Benevo- 
lences, and  was  for  his  manly  and  constitutional  conduct  sen- 
tenced to  imprisonment  during  the  royal  pleasure  and  to  a 
fine  of  fine  thousand  pounds,  Bacon  appeared  as  counsel  for 
the  prosecution.  About  the  same  time  he  was  deeply  en- 
gaged in  a still  more  disgraceful  transaction.  An  aged 
clergyman,  of  the  name  of  Peach  am,  was  accused  of  treason 
on  account  of  some  passages  of  a sermon  which  was  found 
in  his  study.  The  sermon,  whether  written  by  him  or  not, 
had  never  been  preached.  It  did  not  appear  that  he  had 


180 


MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


any  intention  of  preaching  it.  The  most  servile  lawyers  of 
those  servile  times  were  forced  to  admit  that  there  were 
great  difficulties  both  as  to  the  facts  and  as  to  the  law. 
Bacon  was  employed  to  remove  those  difficulties.  He  was 
•employed  to  settle  the  question  of  law  by  tampering  with 
the  judges,  and  the  question  of  fact  by  torturing  the  pris- 
oner. 

Three  judges  of  the  Court  of  King’s  Bench  were  tract- 
able. But  Coke  was  made  of  different  stuff.  Pedant,  bigot, 
and  brute  as  he  was,  he  had  qualities  which  bore  a strong, 
though  a very  disagreeable  resemblance  to  some  of  the  highest 
virtues  which  a public  man  can  possess.  He  was  an  excep- 
tion to  a maxim  which  we  believe  to  be  generally  true,  that 
those  who  trample  on  the  helpless  are  disposed  to  cringe  to 
the  powerful.  He  behaved  with  gross  rudeness  to  his  juniors 
at  the  bar,  and  with  execrable  cruelty  to  prisoners  on  trial 
for  their  lives.  But  he  stood  up  manfully  against  the  King 
and  the  King’s  favorites.  No  man  of  that  age  appeared 
to  so  little  advantage  when  he  was  opposed  to  an  inferior, 
and  was  in  the  wrong.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  but  fair 
to  admit  that  no  man  of  that  age  made  so  creditable  a figure 
when  he  was  opposed  to  a superior,  and  happened  to  be 
in  the  right.  On  such  occasions,  his  half-suppressed  inso- 
lence and  his  impracticable  obstinacy  had  a respectable  and 
interesting  appearance,  when  compared  with  the  abject  ser« 
vility  of  the  bar  and  of  the  bench.  On  the  present  occasion 
he  was  stubborn  and  surly.  He  declared  that  it  was  a new 
and  a highly  improper  practice  in  the  judges  to  confer  with 
a law-officer  of  the  crown  about  capital  cases  which  they 
were  afterwards  to  try ; and  for  some  time  he  resolutely 
kept  aloof.  But  Bacon  was  equally  artful  and  persevering. 
“ I am  not  wholly  out  of  hope,”  said  he  in  a letter  to  the 
King,  “ that  my  Lord  Coke  himself,  when  I have  in  some 
dark  manner  put  him  in  doubt  that  he  shall  be  left  alone, 
will  not  be  singular.”  After  some  time  Bacon’s  dexterity 
was  successful ; and  Coke,  sullenly  and  reluctantly,  followed 
the  example  of  his  brethren.  But  in  order  to  convict  Peach- 
am  it  was  necessary  to  find  facts  as  well  as  law.  Accord- 
ingly, this  wretched  old  man  was  put  to  the  rack,  and,  while 
undergoing  the  horrible  infliction,  was  examined  by  Bacon, 
but  in  vain.  No  confession  could  be  wrung  out  of  him ; and 
Bacon  wrote  to  the  King,  complaining  that  Peacham  had  a 
dumb  devil.  At  length  the  trial  came  on.  A conviction 
was  obtained ; but  the  charges  \r  so  obviously  futile,  that 


LORD  BACON, 


181 


the  government  could  not,  for  very  shame,  carry  the  sen- 
tence into  execution  ; and  Peach  am  was  suffered  to  languish 
away  the  short  remainder  of  his  life  in  a jn'ison. 

All  this  frightful  story  Mr„  Montagu  relates  fairly.  He 
neither  conceals  nor  distorts  any  material  fact.  But  he  can 
see  nothing  deserving  of  condemnation  in  Bacon’s  conduct. 
He  tells  us  most  truly  that  we  ought  not  to  try  the  men  of 
one  age  by  the  standard  of  another;  that  Sir  Matthew  Hale 
is  not  to  be  pronounced  a bad  man  because  he  left  a woman 
to  be  executed  for  witchcraft ; that  posterity  .will  not  be 
justified  in  censuring  judges  of  our  time,  for  selling  offices 
in  their  courts,  according  to  the  established  practice,  bad 
as  that  practice  was ; and  that  Bacon  is  entitled  to  similar 
indulgence.  “ To  persecute  the  lover  of  truth,”  says  Mr. 
Montagu,  “ for  opposing  established  customs,  and  to  censure 
him  in  after  ages  for  not  having  been  more  strenuous  in 
opposition,  are  errors  which  will  never  cease  until  the  pleas- 
ure of  self-elevation  from  the  depression  of  superiority  is 
no  more.” 

We  have  no  dispute  with  Mr.  Montagu  about  the  general 
proposition.  We  assent  to  every  word  of  it.  But  does  it 
apply  to  the  present  case  ? Is  it  true  that  in  the  time  of 
James  the  First  it  was  the  established  practice  for  the  law- 
officers  of  the  Crown,  to  hold  private  consultations  with  the 
judges,  touching  Capital  cases  which  those  judges  were  after- 
wards to  try  ? Certainly  not.  In  the  very  page  in  which 
Mr.  Montagu  asserts  that  “ the  influencing  a judge  out  of 
court  seems  at  that  period  scarcely  to  have  been  considered 
as  improper,”  he  gives  the  very  words  of  Sir  Edward  Coke 
on  the  subject.  “ I will  not  thus  declare  what  may  be  my 
judgment  by  these  auricular  confessions  of  new  and  perni- 
cious tendency,  and  not  according  to  the  customs  of  the  realm” 
Is  it  possible  to  imagine  that  Coke,  who  had  himself  been 
Attorney-General  during  thirteen  years,  who  had  conducted 
a far  greater  number  of  important  state-prosecutions  than 
any  other  lawyer  named  in  English  history,  and  who  had 
passed  with  scarcely  any  interval  from  the  Attorney-Gen- 
eralship to  the  first  seat  in  the  first  criminal  court  in  the 
realm,  could  have  been  startled  at  an  invitation  to  confer 
with  the  crown-lawyers,  and  could  have  pronounced  the 
practice  new,  if  it  had  really  been  an  established  usage? 
We  well  know  that,  where  property  only  was  at  stake,  it 
was  then  a common,  though  a most  culpable  practice,  in  the 
judges,  to  listen  to  private  solicitations,  But  the  practice 


182  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

of  tampering  with  judges  in  order  to  procure  capital  con- 
victions  we  believe  to  have  been  new,  first,  because  Coke, 
who  understood  those  matters  better  than  any  man  of  his 
time,  asserted  it  to  be  new ; and  secondly,  because  neither 
Bacon  nor  Mr.  Montagu  has  shown  a single  precedent. 

How  then  stands  the  case  ? Even  thus  : Bacon  was  not 
conforming  to  an  usage  then  generally  admitted  to  be 
proper.  He  was  not  even  the  last  lingering  adherent  of  an 
old  abuse.  It  would  have  been  sufficiently  disgraceful  to  such 
a man  to  be  in  this  last  situation.  Yet  this  last  situation 
would  have  been  honorable  compared  with  that  in  which 
he  stood.  lie  was  guilty  of  attempting  to  introduce  into 
the  courts  of  law  an  odious  abuse  for  which  no  precedent 
could  be  found.  Intellectually,  he  was  better  fitted  than 
any  man  that  England  has  ever  produced  for  the  work  of 
improving  her  institutions.  But,  unhappily,  we  see  that  he 
did  not  scruple  to  exert  his  great  powers  for  the  purpose  of 
introducing  into  those  institutions  new  corruptions  of  the 
foulest  kind. 

The  same,  or  nearly  the  same,  may  be  said  of  the  tor 
turing  of  Peacham.  If  it  be  true  that  in  the  time  of  James 
the  First  the  propriety  of  torturing  prisoners  was  generally 
allowed,  we  should  admit  this  as  an  excuse,  though  we 
should  admit  it  less  readily  in  the  case  of  such  a man  as 
Bacon  than  in  the  case  of  an  ordinary  lawyer  or  politician. 
But  the  fact  is,  that  the  practice  of  torturing  prisoners  was 
then  generally  acknowledged  by  lawyers  to  be  illegal,  and 
was  execrated  by  the  public  as  barbarous.  More  than 
thirty  years  before  Peacham’s  trial,  that  practice  was  so 
loudly  condemned  by  the  voice  of  the  nation  that  Lord  Bur- 
leigh found  it  necessary  to  publish  an  apology  for  having 
occasionally  resorted  to  it.  But  though  the  dangers  which 
then  threatened  the  government  were  of  a very  different 
kind  from  those  which  were  to  be  apprehended  from  any 
thing  that  Peacham  could  write,  though  the  life  of  the  Queen 
and  the  dearest  interests  of  the  state  were  in  jeopardy, 
though  the  circumstances  were  such  that  all  ordinary  laws 
might  seem  to  be  superseded  by  that  highest  law,  the  public 
safety,  the  apology  did  not  satisfy  the  country : and  the 
Queen  found  it  expedient  to  issue  an  order  positively  for- 
bidding the  torturing  of  state-prisoners  on  any  pretence 
whatever.  From  that  time,  the  practice  of  torturing,  which 
had  always  been  unpopular,  which  had  always  been  illegal, 
had  also  been  unusual.  It  is  well  known  that  in  1628,  only 


LORD  BACON". 


183 


fourteen  years  after  the  time  when  Bacon  went  to  the  Tower 
to  listen  to  the  yells  of  Peach  am,  the  judges  decided  that 
Felton,  a criminal  who  neither  deserved  nor  was  likely  to 
obtain  any  extraordinary  indulgence,  could  not  lawfully  be 
put  to  the  question.  We  therefore  say  that  Bacon  stands 
in  a very  different  situation  from  that  in  which  Mr.  Montagu 
tries  to  place  him.  Bacon  was  here  distinctly  behind  his 
age.  He  was  one  of  the  last  of  the  tools  of  power  who 
persisted  in  a practice  the  most  barbarous  and  the  most 
absurd  that  has  ever  disgraced  jurisprudence,  in  a practice 
of  which  in  the  preceding  generation,  Elizabeth  and  her 
ministers  had  been  ashamed,  in  a practice  which,  a few 
years  later,  no  sycophant  in  all  the  Inns  of  Court  had  the 
heart  or  the  forehead  to  defend.* 

Bacon  far  behind  his  age ! Bacon  far  behind  Sir  Edward 
Coke ! Bacon  clinging  to  exploded  abuses ! . Bacon  with- 
standing the  progress  of  improvement ! Bacon  struggling 
to  push  back  the  human  mind  ! The  words  seem  strange. 
They  sound  like  a contradiction  in  terms.  Yet  the  fact  is 
even  so : and  the  explanation  may  be  readily  found  by  any 
person  who  is  not  blinded  by  prejudice.  Mr.  Montagu 
cannot  believe  that  so  extraordinary  a man  as  Bacon  could  be 
guilty  of  a bad  action ; as  if  history  were  not  made  up  of 
the  bad  actions  of  extraordinary  men,  as  if  all  the  most  noted 
destroyers  and  deceivers  of  our  species,  all  the  founders  of 
arbitrary  governments  and  false  religions,  had  not  been  ex- 
traordinary men,  as  if  nine  tenths  of  the  calamities  which 
have  befallen  the  human  race  had  any  other  origin  than  the 
union  of  high  intelligence  with  low  desires. 

Bacon  knew  this  well.  He  has  told  us  that  there  are 
persons  “ scientia  tanquam  angeli  alati,  cupiditatibus  vero 
tanquam  serpentes  qui  humi  reptant ; ” t and  it  did  not  re- 
quire his  admirable  sagacity  and  his  extensive  converse  with 
mankind  to  make  the  discovery.  Indeed,  he  had  only  to 
look  within.  The  difference  between  the  soaring  angel  and 
the  creeping  snake  was  but  a type  of  the  difference  between 

* Since  this  Review  was  written,  Mr.  Jardine  has  published  a very  learned  and 
ingenious  Reading  on  the  use  of  torture  in  England.  It  has  not,  however,  been 
thought  necessary  to  make  any  change  in  the  observations  onPeacham’s  case. 

It  is  impossible  to  discuss  within  the  limits  of  a note,  the  extensive  question 
raised  by  Mr.  Jardine.  It  is  sufficient  here  to  say  that  every  argument  by  which 
he  attempts  to  show  that  the  use  of  the  rack  was  anciently  a lawful  exertion  of 
royal  prerogative  may  be  urged  with  equal  force,  nay  with  far  greater  force,  to 
prove  the  lawfulness  of  benevolences,  of  ship-money,  of  Mompesson’s  patent,  of 
Eliot’s  imprisonment,  of  every  abuse,  without  exception,  which  is  condemned  by 
the  petition  of  Right  and  the  Declaration  of  Right. 

t Zte  Augmentis , Lib,  v.  Cap.  1. 


184  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wiutings. 

Bacon  the  philosopher  and  Bacon  the  Attorney-General, 
Bacon  seeking  for  truth,  and  Bacon  seeking  for  the  Seals. 
Those  who  survey  only  one  half  of  his  character  may 
speak  of  him  with  unmixed  admiration,  cr  with  unmixed 
contempt.  But  those  only  judge  of  him  correctly  who  take 
in  at  one  view  Bacon  in  speculation  and  Bacon  in  action. 
They  will  have  no  difficulty  in  comprehending  how  one  and 
the  same  man  should  have  been  far  before  his  age  and  far 
behind  it,  in  one  line  the  boldest  and  most  useful  of  innova- 
tors, in  another  line  the  most  obstinate  champion  of  the  foulest 
abuses.  In  his  library,  all  his  rare  powers  were  under 
the  guidance  of  an  honest  ambition,  of  an  enlarged  philan- 
thropy, of  a sincere  love  of  truth.  There,  no  temptation 
drew  him  away  from  the  right  course.  Thomas  Aquinas 
could  pay  no  fees,  Duns  Scotus  could  confer  no  peerages.  The 
Master  of  the  Sentences  had  no  rich  reversions  in  his  gift.  F ar 
different  was  the  situation  of  the  great  philosopher  when  he 
came  forth  from  his  study  and  his  laboratory  to  mingle  with 
the  crowd  which  filled  the  galleries  of  Whitehall.  In  all 
that  crowd  there  was  no  man  equally  qualified  to  render 
great  and  lasting  services  to  mankind.  Butin  all  that  crowd 
there  was  not  a heart  more  set  on  things  which  no  man 
ought  to  suffer  to  be  necessary  to  his  happiness,  on  things 
which  can  often  be  obtained  only  by  the  sacrifice  of  integrity 
and  honor.  To  be  the  leader  of  the  human  race  in  the  career 
of  improvement,  to  found  on  the  ruins  of  ancient  intellectual 
dynasties  a more  prosperous  and  a more  enduring  empire,  to 
be  revered  by  the  latest  generations  as  the  most  illustrious 
among  the  benefactors  of  mankind,  all  this  was  within  his 
reach.  But  all  this  availed  him  nothing  while  some  quib- 
bling special  pleader  was  promoted  before  him  to  the  bench* 
while  some  heavy  country  gentleman  took  precedence  of 
him  by  virtue  of  a purchased  coronet,  while  some  pandar, 
happy  in  a fair  wife,  could  obtain  a more  cordial  salute 
from  Buckingham,  while  some  buffoon,  versed  in  all  the 
latest  scandal  of  the  court,  could  draw  a louder  laugh  from 
James. 

During  a long  course  of  years,  Bacon’s  unworthy  ambition 
was  crowned  with  success.  His  sagacity  early  enabled  him 
to  perceive  who  was  likely  to  become  the  most  powerful  man 
in  the  kingdom.  He  probably  knew  the  King’s  mind  before 
it  was  known  to  the  King  himself,  and  attached  himself  to 
Villiers,  while  the  less  discerning  crowd  of  courtiers  still 
continued  to  fawn  on  Somerset.  The  influence  of  the 


LORD  BACOK. 


185 


younger  favorite  became  greater  daily.  The  contest  be* 
tween  the  rivals  might,  however,  have  lasted  long,  but  for 
that  frightful  crime  which,  in  spite  of  all  that  could  be 
effected  by  the  research  and  ingenuity  of  historians,  is  still 
covered  with  so  mysterious  an  obscurity.  The  descent  of 
Somerset  had  been  a gradual  and  almost  imperceptible  lapse. 
It  now  became  a headlong  fall ; and  Villiers,  left  without 
a competitor,  rapidly  rose  to  a height  of  power  such  as  no 
subject  since  Wolsey  had  attained. 

There  were  many  points  of  resemblance  between  the  two 
celebrated  courtiers  who,  at  different  times,  extended  theii 
patronage  to  Bacon.  It  is  difficult  to  say  whether  Essex  oi 
Villiers  was  more  eminently  distinguished  by  those  graces 
of  person  and  manner  which  have  always  been  rated  in 
courts  at  much  more  than  their  real  value.  Both  were  con- 
stitutionally brave ; and  both,  like  most  men  who  are  con- 
stitutionally brave,  were  open  and  unreserved.  Both  were 
rash  and  headstrong.  Both  were  destitute  of  the  abilities 
and  of  the  information  which  are  necessary  to  statesmen. 
Yet  both,  trusting  to  the  accomplishment  which  had  made 
them  conspicuous  in  tilt-yards  and  ball-rooms,  aspired  to 
rule  the  state.  Both  owed  their  elevation  to  the  personal 
attachment  of  the  sovereign  ; and  in  both  cases  this  attach- 
ment was  of  so  eccentric  a kind,  that  it  perplexed  observers, 
that  it  still  continues  to  perplex  historians,  and  that  it  gave 
rise  to  much  scandal  which  we  are  inclined  to  think  unfounded. 
Each  of  them  treated  the  sovereign  whose  favor  he  enjoyed 
with  a rudeness  which  approached  to  insolence.  Thispetu- 
lance  ruined  Essex,  who  had  to  deal  with  a spirit  naturally 
as  proud  as  his  own,  and  accustomed,  during  near  half  a 
century,  to  the  most  respectful  observance.  But  there  was 
a wide  difference  between  the  haughty  daughter  of  Henry 
and  her  successor.  James  was  timid  from  the  cradle.  His 
nerves,  naturally  weak,  had  not  been  fortified  by  reflection 
or  by  habit.  His  life,  till  he  came  to  England,  had  been  a 
series  of  mortifications  and  humiliations.  With  all  his  high 
notions  of  the  origin  and  extent  of  his  prerogatives,  he  was 
never  his  own  master  for  a day.  In  spite  of  his  kingly  title, 
in  spite  of  his  despotic  theories,  he  was  to  the  last  a slave 
at  heart.  Villiers  treated  him  like  one ; and  this  course, 
though  adopted,  we  believe,  merely  from  temper,  succeeded 
as  well  as  if  it  had  been  a system  of  policy  formed  after 
mature  deliberation, 

In  generosity  in  sonsibilityin  capacity  forfriendsMp2  Eg* 


186  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

sex  far  surpassed  Buckingham.  Indeed,  Buckingham  can 
scarcely  be  said  to  have  had  any  friend,  with  the  exception  of 
the  two  princes  over  whom  successively  he  exercised  so  won- 
derful an  influence.  Essex  was  to  the  last  adored  by  the  peo- 
ple. Buckingham  was  always  a most  unpopular  man,  except 
perhaps  for  a very  short  time  after  his  return  from  the  child- 
ish visit  to  Spain.  Essex  fell  a victim  to  the  rigor  of  the 
government  amidst  the  lamentations  of  the  people.  Buck- 
ingham, execrated  by  the  people,  and  solemnly  declared  a 
public  enemy  by  the  representative  of  the  people,  fell  by 
the  hand  of  one  of  the  people,  and  was  lamented  by  none 
but  his  master. 

The  way  in  which  the  two  favorites  acted  towards  Bacon 
was  highly  characteristic,  and  may  serve  to  illustrate  the  old 
and  true  saying,  that  a man  is  generally  more  inclined  to 
feel  kindly  towards  one  on  whom  he  has  conferred  favors 
than  towards  one  from  whom  he  has  received  them.  Es- 
sex loaded  Bacon  with  benefits,  and  never  thought  that 
he  had  done  enough.  It  seems  never  to  have  crossed 
the  mind  of  the  powerful  and  wealthy  noble  that  the  poor 
barrister  whom  he  treated  with  such  munificent  kindness 
was  not  his  equal.  It  was,  we  have  no  doubt,  with  perfect 
sincerity  that  the  Earl  declared  that  he  would  willingly  give 
his  sister  or  daughter  in  marriage  to  his  friend.  He  was  in 
general  more  than  sufficiently  sensible  of  his  own  merits  ; but 
he  did  not  seem  to  know  that  he  had  ever  deserved  well  of 
Bacon.  On  that  cruel  day  when  they  saw  each  other  for  the 
last  time  at  the  bar  of  the  Lords,  Essex  taxed  his  perfidious 
friend  with  unkindness  and  insincerity,  but  never  with  in- 
gratitude. Even  in  such  a moment,  more  bitter  than  the 
bitterness  of  death,  that  noble  heart  was  too  great  to  vent 
itself  in  such  a reproach. 

Yilliers,  on  the  other  hand,  owed  much  to  Bacon;  When 
their  acquaintance  began,  Sir  Francis  was  a man  of  mature 
age,  of  high  station,  and  of  established  fame  as  a politician, 
an  advocate,  and  a writer.  Yilliers  was  little  more  than  a 
boy,  a younger  son  of  a house  then  of  no  great  note.  He 
was  but  just  entering  on  the  career  of  court  favor ; and 
none  but  the  most  discerning  observers  could  as  yet  per- 
ceive that  he  was  likely  to  distance  all  his  competitors. 
The  countenance  and  advice  of  a man  so  highly  distinguished 
as  the  Attorney-General  must  have  been  an  object  of  the 
highest  importance  to  the  young  adventurer.  But  though 
Yilliers  was  the  obliged  party,  he  was  far  less  warmly  at> 


LORD  BACON. 


187 


tached  to  Bacon,  and  far  less  delicate  in  his  conduct  towards 
Bacon,  than  Essex  had  been. 

To  do  the  new  favorite  justice,  he  early  exerted  his  in- 
fluence in  behalf  of  his  illustrious  friend.  In  1616,  Sir  Francis 
was  sworn  of  the  Privy  Council,  and  in  March,  1617,  on  the 
retirement  of  Lord  Brackley,  was  appointed  Keeper  of  the 
Great  Seal. 

On  the  seventh  of  May,  the  first  day  of  term,  he  rode  in 
state  to  Westminster  Hall,  with  the  Lord  Treasurer  on  his 
right  hand,  the  Lord  Privy  Seal  on  his  left,  a long  proces- 
sion of  students  and  ushers  before  him,  and  a crowd  of  peers, 
privy-councillors,  and  judges  following  in  his  train.  Having 
entered  his  court,  he  addressed  the  splendid  auditory  in  a 
grave  and  dignified  speech,  which  proves  how  well  he  under- 
stood those  judicial  duties  which  he  afterwards  performed 
so  ill.  Even  at  that  moment,  the  proudest  moment  of  his 
life  in  the  estimation  of  the  vulgar,  and,  it  may  be,  even  in 
his  own,  he  cast  back  a look  of  lingering  affection  towards 
those  noble  pursuits  from  which,  as  it  seemed,  he  was  about 
to  be  estranged.  “ The  depth  of  the  three  long  vacations,” 
said  he,  44 1 would  reserve  in  some  measure  free  from  busi- 
ness of  estate,  and  for  studies,  arts,  and  sciences,  to  which 
of  my  own  nature  I am  most  inclined.” 

The  years  during  which  Bacon  held  the  Great  Seal 
were  among  the  darkest  and  most  shameful  in  English  his- 
tory. Everything  at  home  and  abroad  was  mismanaged. 
First  came  the  execution  of  Raleigh,  an  act  which,  if  done 
in  a proper  manner,  might  have  been  defensible,  but  which, 
under  all  the  circumstances,  must  be  considered  as  a das- 
tardly murder.  Worse  was  behind,  the  war  of  Bohemia, 
the  successes  of  Tilly  and  Spinola,  the  Palatinate  conquered, 
the  King’s  son-in-law  an  exile,  the  house  of  Austria  domi- 
nant on  the  Continent,  the  Protestant  religion  and  the 
liberties  of  the  Germanic  body  trodden  under  foot.  Mean- 
while, the  wavering  and  cowardly  policy  of  England  fur- 
nished matter  of  ridicule  to  all  the  nations  of  Europe.  The 
love  of  peace  which  James  professed  would,  even  when  in- 
dulged to  an  impolitic  excess,  have  been  respectable,  if  it 
had  proceeded  from  tenderness  for  his  people.  But  the 
truth  is  that,  while  he  had  nothing  to  spare  for  the  defence 
of  tie  natural  allies  of  England,  he  resorted  without  scruple 
to  the  most  illegal  and  oppressive  devices,  for  the  purpose 
of  enabling  Buckingham  and  Buckingham’s  relations  to  out- 
shine the  ancient  aristocracy  of  the  realm,  Benevolences 


188  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

were  exacted.  Patents  of  monopoly  were  multiplied.  All 
the  resources  which  could  have  been  employed  to  replenish 
a beggared  Exchequer,  at  the  close  of  a ruinous  war,  were 
put  in  motion  during  this  season  of  ignominious  peace. 

The  vices  of  the  administration  must  be  chiefly  ascribed 
to  the  weakness  of  the  King  and  to  the  levity  and  violence 
of  the  favorite.  But  it  is  impossible  to  acquit  the  Lord 
Keeper  of  all  share  in  the  guilt.  For  those  odious  patents, 
in  particular,  which  passed  the  Great  Seal  while  it  was  in 
his  charge,  he  must  be  held  answerable.  In  the  speech 
which  he  made  on  first  taking  his  seat  in  his  court,  he  had 
pledged  himself  to  discharge  this  important  part  of  his 
functions  with  the  greatest  caution  and  impartiality.  He 
had  declared  that  he  “ would  walk  in  the  light,”  “ that  men 
should  see  that  no  particular  turn  or  end  led  him,  but  a 
general  rule.”  Mr.  Montagu  would  have  us  believe  that 
Bacon  acted  up  to  these  professions,  and  says  that  “the 
power  of  the  favorite  did  not  deter  the  Lord  Keeper  from 
staying  grants  and  j^atents  when  his  public  duty  demanded 
this  interposition.”  Does  Mr.  Montagu  consider  patents  of 
Monopoly  as  good  things  ? Or  does  he  mean  to  say  that 
Bacon  staid  every  patent  of  monopoly  that  came  before 
him  ? Of  all  patents  in  our  history,  the  most  disgraceful 
was  that  which  was  granted  to  Sir  Giles  Mompesson,  sup- 
posed to  be  the  original  of  Massinger’s  Overreach,  and  to 
Sir  Francis  Michell,  from  whom  Justice  Greedy  is  suppotttd 
to  have  been  drawn,  for  the  exclusive  manufacturing  of 
gold  and  silver  lace.  The  effect  of  this  monopoly  was  of 
course  that  the  metal  employed  in  the  manufacture  was 
adulterated  to  the  great  loss  of  the  public.  But  this  was  a 
trifle.  The  patentees  were  armed  with  powers  as  great  as 
have  ever  been  given  to  farmers  of  the  revenue  in  the  worst 
governed  countries.  They  were  authorized  to  search  houses 
and  to  arrest  interlopers ; and  these  formidable  powers  were 
used  for  purposes  viler  than  even  those  for  which  they  were 
given,  for  the  wreaking  of  old  grudges,  and  for  the  corrupt- 
ing of  female  chastity.  Was  not  this  a case  in  which  public 
duty  demanded  the  interposition  of  the  Lord  Keeper?  And 
did  the  Lord  Keeper  interpose  ? He  did.  He  wrote  to  in- 
form the  King,  that  he  “had  considered  of  the  fitness  and 
conveniency  of  the  gold  and  silver  thread  business,”  “ that 
it  was  convenient  that  it  should  be  settled,”  that  he  “ did 
conceive  apparent  likelihood  th.it  it  would  redound  much  to 
his  Majesty’s  profit,”  that,  therefore,  “it  were  good  it  were 


LORD  BACON. 


189 


settled  with  all  convenient  speed.”  The  meaning  of  all  this 
was,  that  certain  of  the  house  of  Villiers  were  to  go  shares 
with  Overreach  and  Greedy  in  the  plunder  of  the  public. 
This  was  the  way  in  which,  when  the  favorite  pressed  for 
patents,  lucrative  to  his  relations  and  to  his  creatures,  ruin- 
ous and  vexatious  to  the  body  of  the  people,  the  chief 
guardian  of  the  laws  interposed.  Having  assisted  the  pa- 
tentees to  obtain  this  monopoly,  Bacon  assisted  them  also 
in  the  steps  which  they  took  for  the  purpose  of  guarding  it. 
He  committed  several  people  to  close  confinement  for  dis- 
obeying his  tyrannical  edict.  It  is  needless  to  say  more. 
Our  readers  are  now  able  to  judge  whether,  in  the  matter 
of  patents,  Bacon  acted  conformably  to  his  professions,  or 
deserved  the  praise  which  his  biographer  has  bestowed  on 
him. 

In  his  judicial  capacity  his  conduct  was  not  less  repre- 
hensible. He  suffered  Buckingham  to  dictate  many  of  his 
decisions.  Bacon  knew  as  well  as  any  man  that  a judge 
who  listens  to  private  solicitations  is  a disgrace  to  his  post. 
He  had  himself,  before  he  was  raised  to  the  woolsack,  repre- 
sented this  strongly  to  Villiers,  then  just  entering  on  his 
career.  “ By  no  means,”  said  Sir  Francis,  in  a letter  of 
advice  addressed  to  the  young  courtier,  “ by  no  means  be 
you  persuaded  to  interpose  yourself,  either  by  word  or  let- 
ter, in  any  cause  depending  in  any  court  of  justice,  nor  suf- 
fer any  great  man  to  do  it  where  you  can  hinder  it.  If  it 
should  prevail,  it  perverts  justice ; but  if  the  judge  be  so 
just  and  of  such  courage  as  he  ought  to  be,  as  not  to  be  in- 
clined thereby,  yet  it  always  leaves  a taint  of  suspicion  be- 
hind it.”  Yet  he  had  not  been  Lord  Keeper  a month  when 
Buckingham  began  to  interfere  in  Chancery  suits ; and 
Buckingham’s  interference  was,  as  might  have  been  ex- 
pected, successful. 

Mr.  Montagu’s  reflections  on  the  excellent  passage  which 
we  have  quoted  above  are  exceedingly  amusing.  “ No 
man,”  says  he,  “ more  deeply  felt  the  evils  which  then  ex- 
isted of  the  interference  of  the  Crown  and  of  statesmen  to 
influence  judges.  How  beautifully  did  he  admonish  Buck- 
ingham, regardless  as  he  proved  of  all  admonition ! ” We 
should  be  glad  to  know  how  it  can  be  expected  that  admo- 
nition will  be  regarded  by  him  who  receives  it,  when  it  is  al- 
together neglected  by  him  who  gives  it.  We  do  not  defend 
Buckingham  : but  what  was  his  guilt  to  Bacon’s  ? Bucking- 
ham was  young,  ignorant,  thoughtless,  dizzy  with  the  rapid- 


190  macatjlay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

ity  of  his  ascent  and  the  height  of  his  position.  That  he 
should  he  eager  to  serve  his  relations,  his  flatterers,  his  mis- 
tresses, that  he  should  not  fully  apprehend  the  immense  im- 
portance of  a pure  administration  of  justice,  that  he  should 
think  more  about  those  who  were  bound  to  him  by  private 
ties  than  about  the  public  interest,  all  this  was  perfectly  na- 
tural, and  not  altogether  unpardonable.  Those  who  intrust 
a petulant,  hot-blooded,  ill-informed  lad  with  power,  are 
more  to  blame  than  he  for  the  mischief  which  he  may  do 
it.  How  could  it  be  expected  of  a lively  page,  raised  by  a 
wild  freak  of  fortune  to  the  first  influence  in  the  empire, 
that  he  should  have  bestowed  any  serious  thought  on  the 
principles  which  ought  to  guide  judicial  decisions  ? Bacon 
was  the  ablest  public  man  then  living  in  Europe.  He  was 
near  sixty  years  old.  He  had  thought  much,  and  to  good 
purpose,  on  the  general  principles  of  law.  He  had  for  many 
years  borne  a part  daily  in  the  administration  of  justice.  It 
was  impossible  that  a man  with  a tithe  of  his  sagacity  and 
experience  should  not  have  known  that  a judge  who  suffers 
friends  or  patrons  to  dictate  his  decrees  violates  the  plain-  # 
est  rules  of  duty.  In  fact,  as  we  have  seen,  he  knew  this 
well:  he  expressed  it  admirably.  Neither  on  this  occasion 
nor  on  any  other  could  his  bad  actions  be  attributed  to  any 
defect  of  the  head.  They  sprang  from  quite  a different 
cause. 

A man  who  stooped  to  render  such  services  to  others 
was  not  likely  to  be  scrupulous  as  to  the  means  by  which 
he  enriched  himself.  He  and  his  dependants  accepted 
large  presents  from  persons  who  were  engaged  in  Chancery 
suits.  The  amount  of  the  plunder  which  he  collected  in 
this  way  it  is  impossible  to  estimate.  There  can  be  no 
doubt  that  he  received  very  much  more  than  was  proved  on 
his  trial,  though,  it  may  be,  less  than  was  suspected  by  the 
public.  His  enemies  stated  his  illicit  gains  at  a hundred 
thousand  pounds.  But  this  was  probably  an  exaggeration. 

It  was  long  before  the  day  of  reckoning  arrived.  Dur- 
ing the  interval  between  the  second  and  third  Parliaments 
of  James,  the  nation  was  absolutely  governed  by  the  Crown. 
The  prospects  of  the  Lord  Keeper  were  bright  and  serene. 
His  great  place  rendered  the  splendor  of  his  talents  even 
more  conspicuous,  and  gave  an  additional  charm  to  the  ser- 
enity of  his  temper,  the  courtesy  of  his  manners,  and  the 
eloquence  of  his  conversation.  The  pillaged  suitor  might 
mutter.  The  austere  Puritan  patriot  might,  in  his  retreat, 


LORD  BACON. 


191 


grieve  that  one  on  whom  God  had  bestowed  without  meas- 
ure all  the  abilities  which  qualify  men  to  take  the  lead  in 
great  reforms  should  be  found  among  the  adherents  of  the 
worst  abuses.  But  the  murmurs  of  the  suitor  and  the  la- 
mentations of  the  patriot  had  scarcely  any  avenue  to  the 
ears  of  the  powerful.  The  King,  and  the  minister  who  was 
the  King’s  master,  smiled  on  their  illustrious  flatterer.  The 
whole  crowd  of  courtiers  and  nobles  sought  his  favor  with 
emulous  eagerness.  Men  of  wit  and  learning  hailed  with 
delight  the  elevation  of  one  who  had  so  signally  shown  that 
a man  of  profound  learning  and  of  brilliant  wit  might  un- 
derstand, far  better  than  any  plodding  dunce,  the  art  of 
thriving  in  the  world. 

Once,  and  but  once,  tSiis  course  of  prosperity  was  for  a 
moment  interrupted.  It  should  seem  that  even  Bacon’s 
brain  was  not  strong  enough  to  bear  without  some  discom- 
posure the  inebriating  effect  of  so  much  good  fortune.  For 
some  time  after  his  elevation  he  showed  himself  a little 
wanting  in  that  wariness  and  self-command  to  which,  more 
than  even  to  his  transcendent  talents,  his  elevation  was  to 
be  ascribed.  He  was  by  no  means  a good  hater.  The  tem- 
perature of  his  revenge,  like  that  of  his  gratitude,  was 
scarcely  ever  more  than  lukewarm.  But  there  was  one  per- 
son whom  he  had  long  regarded  with  an  animosity  which, 
though  studiously  suppressed,  was  perhaps  the  stronger  for 
the  suppression.  The  insults  and  injuries  which,  when  a 
young  man  struggling  into  note  and  professional  practice, 
lie  had  received  from  Sir  Edward  Coke,  were  such  as  might 
move  the  most  placable  nature  to  resentment.  About  the 
time  at  which  Bacon  received  the  Seals,  Coke  had,  on  ac- 
count of  his  contumacious  resistance  to  the  royal  pleasure, 
been  deprived  of  his  seat  in  the  Court  of  King’s  Bench,  and 
had  ever  since  languished  in  retirement.  But  Coke’s  oppo- 
sition to  the  Court,  we  fear,  was  the  effect  not  of  good  prin- 
ciples, but  of  a bad  temper.  Perverse  and  testy  as  he  was, 
he  wanted  true  fortitude  and  dignity  of  character.  His 
obstinacy,  unsupported  by  virtuous  motives,  was  not  proof 
against  disgrace.  He  solicited  a reconciliation  with  the 
favorite,  and  his  solicitations  were  successful.  Sir  John 
Yilliers,  the  brother  of  Buckingham,  was  looking  out  for  a 
rich  wife.  Coke  had  a large  fortune  and  an  unmarried 
daughter.  A bargain  was  struck.  But  Lady  Coke,  the 
lady  whom  twenty  years  before  Essex  had  wooed  on  behalf 
r>f  Bacon*  would  not  hear  oi  the  match.  A violent  and 


192 


MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


scandalous  family  quarrel  followed.  The  mother  carried 
the  girl  away  by  stealth.  The  father  pursued  them  and  re- 
gained possession  of  his  daughter  by  force.  The  King  was 
then  in  Scotland,  and  Buckingham  had  attended  him  thither. 
Bacon  was,  during  their  absence,  at  the  head  of  affairs  in 
England.  He  felt  towards  Coke  as  much  malevolence  as  it 
was  in  his  nature  to  feel  towards  anybody.  Ilis  wisdom  had 
been  laid  to  sleep  by  prosperity.  In  an  evil  hour  he  deter- 
mined to  interfere  in  the  disputes  which  agitated  his  enemy’s 
household.  He  declared  for  the  wife,  countenanced  the 
Attorney -General  in  filing  an  information  in  the  Star 
Chamber  against  the  husband,  and  wrote  letters  to  the  King 
and  the  favorite  against  the  proposed  marriage.  The  strong 
language  which  he  used  in  those  letters  shows  that,  saga- 
cious as  he  was,  he  did  not  quite  kno  w his  place,  and  that 
he  was  not  fully  acquainted  with  the  extent  either  of  Buck- 
ingham’s power,  or  of  the  change  which  the  possession  of 
that  power  had  produced  in  Buckingham’s  character.  He 
soon  had  a lesson  which  he  never  forgot.  The  favorite 
received  the  news  of  the  Lord  Keeper’s  interference  with 
feelings  of  the  most  violent  resentment,  and  made  the  King 
even  more  angry  than  himself.  Bacon’s  eyes  were  at  once 
opened  to  his  error,  and  to  all  its  possible  consequences. 
He  had  been  elated,  if  not  intoxicated,  by  greatness.  The 
shock  sobered  him  in  an  instant.  He  was  all  himself  again. 
He  apologized  submissively  for  his  interference.  He 
directed  the  Attorney-General  to  stop  the  proceedings 
against  Coke.  He  sent  to  tell  Lady  Coke  that  he  could  do 
nothing  for  her.  lie  announced  to  Loth  the  families  that 
he  was  desirous  to  promote  the  connection.  Having  given 
these  proofs  of  contrition,  he  ventured  to  present  himself 
before  Buckingham.  But  the  young  upstart  did  not  think 
that  he  had  yet  sufficiently  humbled  an  old  man  who  had 
been  his  friend  and  his  benefactor,  who  was  the  highest  civil 
functionary  in  the  realm,  and  the  most  eminent  man  of 
letters  in  the  world.  It  is  said  that  on  two  successive  days 
Bacon  repaired  to  Buckingham’s  house,  that  on  two  succes- 
sive days  he  was  suffered  to  remain  in  an  antechamber 
among  foot-boys,  seated  on  an  old  wooden  box,  with  the 
Great  Seal  of  England  at  his  side,  and  that  when  at  length 
he  was  admitted,  he  flung  himself  on  the  floor,  kissed  the 
favorite’s  feet,  and  vowed  never  to  rise  again  until  he  was 
forgiven.  Sir  Anthony  Weldon,  on  whose  authority  tills 
story  rests,  is  likely  eaough  to  have  exaggerated  the  mean- 


LOUD  BACON. 


193 


ness  of  Bacon  and  the  insolence  of  Buckingham.  But  it  is 
difficult  to  imagine  that  so  circumstantial  a narrative,  written 
by  a person  who  avers  that  he  was  present  on  the  occasion, 
can  be  wholly  without  foundation  ; and,  unhappily  there  is 
little  in  the  character  either  of  the  favorite  or  of  the  Lord 
Keeper  to  make  the  narrative  improbable.  It  is  certain 
that  a reconciliation  took  place  on  terms  humiliating  to 
Bacon,  who  never  more  ventured  to  cross  any  purpose  of 
anybody  who  bore  the  name  of  Yilliers.  He  put  a strong 
curb  on  those  angry  passions  which  had  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life  mastered  his  prudence.  He  went  through  the 
forms  of  a reconciliation  with  Coke,  and  did  his  best,  by 
seeking  opportunities  of  paying  little  civilities,  and  by  avoid- 
ing all  that  could  produce  collision,  to  tame  the  untamable 
ferocity  of  his  old  enemy. 

In  the  main,  however.  Bacon’s  life,  while  he  held  the 
Great  Seal,  was,  in  outward  appearance,  most  enviable.  In 
London  he  lived  with  great  dignity  at  York  House,  the  vem 
erable  mansion  of  his  father.  Here  it  was  that,  in  January, 
1620,  he  celebrated  his  entrance  into  his  sixtieth  year  amidst 
a splendid  circle  of  friends.  He  had  then  exchanged  the 
appellation  of  Keeper  for  the  higher  title  of  Chancellor. 
Ben  Jonsen  was  one  of  the  party,  and  wrote  on  the  occa- 
sion some  of  the  happiest  of  his  rugged  rhymes.  All  things, 
he  tells  us,  seemed  to  smile  about  the  old  house,  “ the  fire, 
the  wine,  the  men.”  The  spectacle  of  the  accomplished  host, 
after  a life  marked  by  no  great  disaster,  entering  on  a green 
old  age,  in  the  enjoyment  of  riches,  power,  high  honors, 
undiminished  mental  activity,  and  vast  literary  reputation, 
made  a strong  impression  on  the  poet,  if  we  may  judge  from 
those  well-known  lines: 

“ England’s  high  Chancellor,  the  destined  heir, 

In  his  soft  cradle,  to  his  father’s  chair.” 

Whose  even  thread  the  Fates  spin  round  and  full 
Out  of  their  choicest  and  their  whitest  wool.” 

In  the  intervals  of  rest  \vhich  Bacon’s  political  and  judi- 
cial functions  afforded,  hu  was  in  the  habit  of  retiring  to 
Gorhambury.  At  that  place  his  business  was  literature,  and 
his  favorite  amusement  gardening,  which  in  one  of  his  most 
interesting  Essays  he  calls  “ the  purest  of  human  pleasures.” 
In  his  magnificent  grounds  he  erected,  at  a cost  of  ten  thou- 
sand pounds,  a retreat  to  which  he  repaired  when  he  wished 
to  avoid  all  visitors,  and  to  devote  himself  wholly  to  study. 
On  such  Occasions,  a few  young  men  of  distinguished 
Vol.  II. — 13 


m 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


talents  were  sometimes  the  companions  of  his  retirement ; 
and  among  them  his  quick  eye  soon  discerned  the  superior 
abilities  of  Thomas  Ilobbes.  It  is  not  probable,  however, 
that  he  fully  appreciated  the  powers  of  his  disciple,  or  fore- 
saw the  vast  influence,  both  for  good  and  for  evil,  which 
that  most  vigorous  and  acute  of  human  intellects  was  destined 
to  exercise  on  the  two  succeeding  generations. 

In  January,  1621,  Bacon  had  reached  the  zenith  of  his 
fortunes.  He  had  just  published  the  Novum  Organum ; 
and  that  extraordinary  book  had  drawn  forth  the  warmest 
expressions  of  admiration  from  the  ablest  men  in  Europe. 
He  had  obtained  honors  of  a widely  different  kind,  but  per- 
haps not  less  valued  by  him.  He  had  been  created  Baron 
Verulam.  He  had  subsequently  been  raised  to  the  higher 
dignity  of  Viscount  St.  Albans.  His  patent  was  drawn  in 
the  most  flattering  terms,  and  the  Prince  of  Wales  signed 
it  as  a witness.  The  ceremony  of  investiture  ^vas  performed 
with  great  state  at  Theobalds,  and  Buckingham  conde- 
scended to  be  one  of  the  chief  actors.  Posterity  has  felt 
that  the  greatest  of  English  philosophers  could  derive  no 
accession  of  dignity  from  any  title  which  James  could  be- 
stow, and,  in  defiance  of  "the  royal  letters  patent,  has  obsti- 
nately refused  to  degrade  Francis  Bacon  into  Viscount  St. 
Albans. 

In  a few  weeks  was  signally  brought  to  the  test  the 
value  of  those  objects  for  which  Bacon  had  sullied  his  in- 
tegrity, had  resigned  his  independence,  had  violated  the 
most  sacred  obligations  of  friendship  and  gratitude,  had 
flattered  the  worthless,  had  persecuted  the  innocent,  had 
tampered  with  judges,  had  tortured  prisoners,  had  plundered 
suitors,  had  wasted  on  paltry  intrigues  all  the  powers  of 
the  most  exquisitely  constructed  intellect  that  has  ever  been 
bestowed  on  any  of  the  children  of  men.  A sudden  and 
terrible  reverse  was  at  hand.  A parliament  had  been  sum- 
moned. After  six  years  of  silence  the  voice  of  the  nation 
was  again  to  be  heard.  Only  three  days  after  the  pageant 
which  was  performed  at  Theobalds  in  honor  of  Bacon,  the 
Houses  met. 

Want  of  money  had,  as  usual,  induced  the  King  to  con- 
voke his  Parliament.  It  may  be  doubted,  however,  whether, 
if  he  or  his  ministers  had  been  at  all  aware  of  the  state  of 
public  feeling,  they  would  not  have  tried  any  expedient,  or 
borne  with  any  inconvenience,  rather  than  have  ventured  to 
face  the  deputies  of  a justly  exasperated  nation.  But  they 


LOBJ;  BACON. 


195 


did  not  discern  those  times.  Indeed  almost  all  the  political 
blunders  of  James,  and  of  his  more  unfortunate  son,  arose 
from  one  great  error.  During  the  fifty  years  which  pre- 
ceded the  Long  Parliament,  a great  and  progressive  change 
was  taking  place  in  the  public  mind.  The  nature  and  extent 
of  this  change  was  not  in  the  least  understood  by  either  of  the 
first  two  Kings  of  the  House  of  Stuart,  or  by  any  of  their  ad- 
visers. That  the  nation  became  more  and  more  discontented 
every  year,  that  every  House  of  Commons  was  more  unman- 
ageable than  that  which  had  preceded  it,  were  facts  which 
it  was  impossible  not  to  perceive.  But  the  Court  could  not 
understand  why  these  things  were  so.  The  Court  could  not 
see  that  the  English  people  and  the  English  Government, 
though  they  might  once  have  been  well  suited  to  each  other, 
were  suited  to  each  other  no  longer;  that  the  nation  had 
outgrown  its  old  institutions,  was  every  day  more  uneasy 
under  them,  was  pressing  against  them,  and  would  soon 
burst  through  them.  The  alarming  pha3nomena,  the  exist- 
ence of  which  no  sycoifiiant  could  deny,  were  ascribed  to 
every  cause  except  the  true  one.  “ In  my  first  Parliament,” 
said  James,  “ I was  a novice.  In  my  next,  there  was  a 
kind  of  beasts  called  undertakers,”  and  so  forth.  In  the 
third  Parliament  he  could  hardly  be  called  a novice,  and 
those  beasts,  the  undertakers,  did  not  exist.  Yet  his  third 
Parliament  gave  him  more  trouble  than  either  the  first  or 
the  second. 

The  Parliament  had  no  sooner  met  than  the  House  of 
Commons  proceeded,  in  a temperate  and  respectful,  but 
most  determined  manner,  to  discuss  the  public  grievances. 
Their  first  attacks  were  directed  against  those  odious  patents, 
under  cover  of  which  Buckingham  and  his  creatures  had 
pillaged  and  oppressed  the  nation.  The  vigor  wuth  which 
these  proceedings  were  conducted  spread  dismay  through 
the  Court.  Buckingham  thought  himself  in  danger,  and, 
in  his  alarm,  had  recourse  to  an  adviser  who  had  lately  ac* 
quired  considerable  influence  over  him,  Williams,  Dean  of 
Westminster.  This  person  had  already  been  of  great  use 
to  the  favorite  in  a very  delicate  matter.  Buckingham  had 
set  his  heart  on  marrying  Lady  Catherine  Manners,  daughter 
and  heiress  of  the  Earl  of  Rutland.  But  the  difficulties  were 
great.  The  Earl  was  haughty  and  impracticable,  and  the 
young  lady  was  a Catholic.  Williams  soothed  the  pride  of 
the  father,  and  found  arguments  which,  for  a time  at  least, 
quieted  the  conscience  of  the  daughter,  For  these  services 


196 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


he  had  been  rewarded  with  considerable  preferment  in  the 
Church;  and  he  was  now  rapidly  rising  to  the  same  place 
in  the  regard  of  Buckingham  which  had  formerly  been  oc- 
cupied by  Bacon. 

Williams  was  one  of  those  who  are  wiser  for  others  than 
for  themselves.  Ilis  own  public  life  was  unfortunate,  and 
was  made  unfortunate  by  his  strange  want  of  judgment  and 
self-command  at  several  important  conjunctures.  But  the 
counsel  which  he  gave  on  this  occasion  showed  no  want  of 
worldly  wisdom.  He  advised  the  favorite  to  abandon  all 
thoughts  of  defending  the  monopolies,  to  find  some  foreign 
embassy  for  his  brother  Sir  Edward,  who  was  deeply  im- 
plicated in  the  villanies  of  Mompesson,  and  to  leave  the 
other  offenders  to  the  justice  of  Parliament.  Buckingham 
received  this  advice  with  the  warmest  expressions  of  grati- 
tude, and  declared  that  a load  had  been  lifted  from  his 
heart.  He  then  repaired  with  Williams  to  the  royal  pres- 
ence. They  found  the  King  engaged  in  earnest  consulta- 
tion with  Prince  Charles.  The  plan  of  operations  proposed 
by  the  Dean  was  fully  discussed,  and  approved  in  ail  its 
parts. 

The  first  victims  whom  the  Court  abandoned  to  the 
vengeance  of  the  Commons  were  Sir  Giles  Mompesson  and 
Sir  Francis  Michell.  It  was  some  time  before  Bacon  began 
to  entertain  any  apprehensions.  Ilis  talents  and  His  ad- 
dress gave  him  great  influence  in  the  house  of  which  he  had 
lately  become  a member,  as  indeed  they  must  have  in  any 
assembly.  In  the  House  of  Commons  he  had  many  personal 
friends  and  many  warm  admirers.  But  at  length,  about  six 
weeks  after  the  meeting  of  Parliament,  the  storm  burst. 

A committee  of  the  lower  House  had  been  appointed  to 
inquire  into  the  state  of  the  Courts  of  Justice.  On  the 
fifteenth  of  March,  the  chairman  of  that  committee,  Sir 
Robert  Philips;  member  for  Bath,  reported  that  great 
abuses  had  been  discovered.  “ The  person,’’  said  lie, 
“ against  whom  these  things  are  alleged  is  no  less  than  the 
I lord  Chancellor,  a man  so  endued  with  all  parts,  both  of 
nature  and  art,  as  that  I will  say  no  more  of  him,  being  not 
able  to  say  enough.”  Sir  Robert  then  proceeded  to  state, 
in  the  most  temperate  manner,  the  nature  of  the  charges. 
A person  of  the  name  of  Aubrey  had  a case  depending  in 
Chancery.  He  had  been  almost  ruined  by  law-expenses,  and 
his  patience  had  been  exhausted  by  the  delays  of  tho  court. 
Ho  received  a hint  from  some  of  the  hangers-on  of  the 


LORD  BACON. 


197 


Chancellor  that  a present  of  one  hundred  pounds  would 
expedite  matters.  The  poor  man  had  not  the  sum  required. 
However,  having  found  out  an  usurer  who  accommodated 
him  with  it  at  high  interest,  he  carried  it  to  York  House. 
The  Chancellor  took  the  money,  and  his  dependents  as* 
sured  the  suitor  that  all  would  go  right.  Aubrey  was,  how- 
ever, disappointed  ; for,  after  considerable  delay,  “ a killing 
decree  ” was  pronounced  against  him.  Another  suitor  of 
the  name  of  Egerton  complained  that  he  had  been  induced 
by  two  of  the  Chancellor’s  jackals  to  make  his  Lordship  a 
present  of  four  hundred  pounds,  and  that,  nevertheless,  he 
had  not  been  able  to  obtain  a decree  in  his  favor.  The  evi- 
dence to  these  facts  was  overwhelming.  Bacon’s  friends 
could  only  entreat  the  House  to  suspend  its  judgment,  and 
to  send  up  the  case  to  the  Lords,  in  a form  less  offensive 
than  an  impeachment. 

On  the  nineteenth  of  March  the  King  sent  a message  to 
the  Commons,  expressing  his  deep  regret  that  so  eminent  a 
person  as  the  Chancellor  should  be  suspected  of  misconduct. 
His  Majesty  declared  that  he  had  no  wish  to  screen  the 
guilty  from  justice,  and  proposed  to  appoint  a new  kind  of 
tribunal,  consisting  of  eighteen  commissioners,  who  might 
be  chosen  from  among  the  members  of  the  two  Houses,  to 
investigate  the  matter.  The  Commons  were  not  disposed 
to  depart  from  their  regular  course  of  proceeding.  On  the 
same  day  they  had  a conference  with  the  Lords,  and  de- 
livered in  the  heads  of  the  accusation  against  the  Chancel- 
lor. At  this  conference  Bacon  was  not  present.  Over- 
whelmed with  shame  and  remorse,  and  abandoned  by  all 
those  in  whom  he  had  weakly  put  his  trust,  he  had  shut 
himself  up  in  his  chamber  from  the  eyes  of  men.  The  de- 
jection of  his  mind  soon  disordered  his  body.  Buckingham, 
who  visited  him  by  the  King’s  order,  “ found  his  Lordship 
very  sick  and  heavy.”  It  appears  from  a pathetic  letter 
which  the  unhappy  man  addressed  to  the  Peers  on  the  day 
of  the  conference,  that  he  neither  expected  nor  wished  to 
survive  his  disgrace.  During  several  days  he  remained  in 
his  bed,  refusing  to  see  any  human  being.  He  passionately 
told  his  attendants  to  leave  him,  to  forget  him,  never  again 
to  name  his  name,  never  to  remember  that  there  had  been 
euch  a man  in  the  world.  In  the  mean  time,  fresh  instances 
of  corruption  were  every  day  brought  to  the  knowledge  of 
his  accusers.  The  number  of  charges  rapidly  increased  from 
two  to  twenty-throe*  The  Lords  entered  on  the  inyestig% 


198  macaulat’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

tion  of  the  case  with  laudable  alacrity.  Some  Avitnesses 
were  examined  at  the  bar  of  the  House.  A select  com- 
mittee was  appointed  to  take  the  depositions  of  others  ; and 
the  inquiry  was  rapidly  proceeding,  when,  on  the  twenty- 
sixth  day  of  March,  the  King  adjourned  the  Parliament  for 
three  weeks. 

This  measure  revived  Bacon’s  hopes.  He  made  the 
most  of  his  short  respite.  He  attempted  to  work  on  the 
feeble  mind  of  the  King.  He  appealed  to  all  the  strongest 
feelings  of  James,  to  his  fears,  to  his  vanity,  to  his  high 
notions  of  prerogative.  Would  the  Solomon  of  the  age 
commit  so  gross  an  error  as  to  encourage  the  encroaching 
spirit  of  Parliament?  Would  God’s  anointed,  accountable 
to  God  alone,  pay  homage  to  the  clamorous  multitude? 
“ Those,”  exclaimed  Bacon,  “ who  now  strike  at  the  Chan- 
cellor will  soon  strike  at  the  Crown.  I am  the  first  sacrifice. 
I wish  I may  be  the  last.”  But  all  his  eloquence  and  ad- 
dress were  employed  in  vain.  Indeed,  whatever  Mr.  Mon- 
tagu may  say,  we  are  firmly  convinced  that  it  was  not  in 
the  King’s  power  to  save  Bacon,  without  having  recourse  to 
measures  which  would*  have  convulsed  the  realm.  Tho 
Crown  had  not  sufficient  influence  over  the  Parliament  to 
procure  an  acquittal  in  so  clear  a case  of  guilt.  And  to 
dissolve  a Parliament  which  is  universally  allowed  to  have 
been  one  of  the  best  Parliaments  that  ever  sat,  which  had 
acted  liberally  and  respectfully  towards  the  Sovereign,  and 
which  enjoyed  in  the  highest  degree  the  favor  of  the  people, 
only  in  order  to  stop  a grave,  temperate,  and  constitutional 
inquiry  into  the  personal  integrity  of  the  first  judge  in  the 
kingdom,  would  have  been  a measure  more  scandalous  and 
absurd  than  any  of  those  which  were  the  ruin  of  the  House 
of  Stuart.  Such  a measure,  while  it  would  have  been  as 
fatal  to  the  Chancellor’s  honor  as  a conviction,  would  have 
endangered  the  very  existence  of  the  monarchy.  The  King, 
acting  by  the  advice  of  Williams,  very  properly  refused  to 
engage  in  a dangerous  struggle  with  his  people,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  saving  from  legal  condemnation  a minister  whom 
it  was  impossible  to  save  from  dishonor.  He  advised 
Bacon  to  plead  guilty,  and  promised  to  do  all  in  his  power 
to  mitigate  the  punishment.  Mr.  Montagu  is  exceedingly 
angry  witli  James  on  this  account.  But  though  we  are,  in 
general,  very  little  inclined  to  admire  that  Prince’s  conduct, 
we  really  think  that  his  advice  was,  under  all  the  circum- 
stances, the  best  advice  that  could  have  been  given* 


LORD  BACOtf, 


199 


On  the  seventeenth  of  April  the  Houses  reassembled, 
and  the  Lords  resumed  their  inquiries  into  the  abuses  of 
the  Court  of  Chancery.  On  the  twenty-second,  Bacon 
addressed  to  the  Peers  a letter,  which  the  Prince  of  Wale?, 
condescended  to  deliver.  In  this  artful  and  pathetic  com- 
position, the  Chancellor  acknowledged  his  guilt  in  guarded 
and  general  terms,  and,  while  acknowledging,  endeavored 
to  palliate  it.  This,  however,  was  not  thought  sufficient  by 
his  judges.  They  required  a more  particular  confession, 
and  sent  him  a copy  of  the  charges.  On  the  thirtieth,  he 
delivered  a paper,  in  which  he  admitted,  with  a few  and  un- 
important reservations,  the  truth  of  the  accusations  brought 
against  him,  and  threw  himself  entirely  on  the  mercy  of  his 
peers.  “Upon  advised  consideration  of  the  charges,”  said 
he,  “descending  into  my  own  conscience,  and  calling  my 
memory  to  account  so  far  as  I am  able,  I do  plainly  and 
ingenuously  confess  that  I am  guilty  of  corruption,  and 
do  renounce  all  defence.” 

The  Lords  came  to  a resolution  that  the  Chancellor’s 
confession  appeared  to  be  full  and  ingenuous,  and  sent  a 
committee  to  inquire  of  him  whether  it  was  really  sub- 
scribed by  himself.  The  deputies,  among  whom  was  South- 
ampton, the  common  friend,  many  years  before,  of  Bacon 
and  Essex,  performed  their  duty  with  great  delicacy.  In- 
deed the  agonies  of  such  a mind  and  the  degradation  of 
such  a name  might  well  have  softened  the  most  obdurate 
natures.  “ My  Lords,”  said  Bacon,  “ it  is  my  act,  my  hand, 
my  heart.  I beseech  your  Lordships  to  be  merciful  to  a 
broken  reed.”  They  withdrew;  and  he  again  retired  to 
Lis  chamber  in  the  deepest  dejection.  The  next  day,  the 
sergeant-at-arms  and  the  usher  of  the  House  of  Lords  came 
to  conduct  him  to  Westminster  Hal],  where  sentence  was 
to  be  pronounced.  But  they  found  him  so  unwell  that  he 
could  not  leave  his  bed ; and  this  excuse  for  his  absence 
w as  readily  accepted.  In  no  quarter  does  there  appear  to 
have  been  the  smallest  desire  to  add  to  his  humiliation. 

The  sentence  was,  however,  severe,  the  more  severe,  no 
doubt,  because  the  Lords  knew  that  it  would  not  be  executed, 
and  that  they  had  an  excellent  opportunity  of  exhibiting,  at 
small  cost,  the  inflexibility  of  their  justice,  and  their  abhor- 
rence of  corruption.  Bacon  was  condemned  to  pay  a fine  of 
forty  thousand  pounds,  and  to  be  imprisoned  in  the  Tower 
during  the  King’s  pleasure.  He  was  declared  incapable  of 
holding  any  office  in  the  State,  or  of  sitting  in  Parliament ; 


200  MACATJLAY*S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

and  he  was  banished  for  life  from  the  verge  of  the  court, 
In  such  misery  and  shame  ended  that  long  career  of  worldly 
wisdom  and  worldly  prosperity. 

Even  at  this  pass  Mr.  Montagu  does  not  desert  his  hero. 
He  seems  indeed  to  think  that  the  attachment  of  an  editor 
ought  to  be  as  devoted  as  that  of  Mr.  Moore’s  lovers;  and 
cannot  conceive  what  biography  was  made  for, 

“if  ’tis  not  the  same 

Through  joy  and  through  torment,  through  glory  and  shame.,, 

He  assures  us  that  Bacon  was  innocent,  that  he  had  the 
means  of  making  a perfectly  satisfactory  defence,  that  when 
he  “ plainly  and  ingenuously  confessed  that  he  was  guilty  of 
corruption,”  and  when  he  afterwards  solemnly  affirmed  that 
his  confession  was  “ his  act,  his  hand,  his  heart,”  he  was  tell- 
ing a great  lie,  and  that  he  refrained  from  bringing  forward 
proofs  of  his  innocence,  because  he  durst  not  disobey  the 
King  and  the  favorite,  who,  for  his  own  selfish  objects, 
pressed  him  to  plead  guilty. 

Now,  in  the  first  place,  there  is  not  the  smallest  reason 
to  believe  that,  if  James  and  Buckingham  had  thought  that 
Bacon  had  a good  defence,  they  would  have  prevented  him 
from  making  it.  What  conceivable  motive  had  they  for 
doing  so?  Mr.  Montagu  perpetually  repeats  that  it  was 
their  interest  to  sacrifice  Bacon.  But  he  overlooks  an  obvious 
distinction.  It  was  their  interest  to  sacrifice  Bacon  on  the 
supposition  of  his  guilt ; but  not  on  the  supposition  of  his 
innocence.  James  was  very  properly  unwilling  to  run  the 
risk  of  protecting  his  Chancellor  against  the  Parliament. 
But  if  the  Chancellor  had  been  able,  by  force  of  argument, 
to  obtain  an  acquittal  from  the  Parliament,  we  have  no 
doubt  that  both  the  King  and  Villiers  would  have  heartily 
rejoiced.  They  would  have  rejoiced,  not  merely  on  account 
of  their  friendship  for  Bacon,  which  seems,  however,  to  have 
been  as  sincere  as  most  friendships  of  that  sort,  but  on  selfish 
grounds.  Nothing  could  have  strengthened  the  government 
more  than  such  a victory.  The  King  and  the  favorite 
abandoned  the  Chancellor  because  they  were  unable  to  avert 
his  disgrace,  and  unwilling  to  share  it.  Mr.  Montagu  mis- 
takes effect  for  cause.  He  thinks  that  Bacon  did  not  prove 
his  innocence,  because  he  was  not  supported  by  the  Court, 
The  truth  evidently  is  that  the  Court  did  not  venture  to  sup- 
port Bacon,  because  he  could  not  prove  his  innocence. 

Again,  it  seems  strange  that  Mr.  Montagu  should  not 


LORD  BACON. 


201 


perceive  that,  while  attempting  to  vindicate  Bacon’s  reputa 
tion,  he  is  really  casting  on  it  the  foulest  of  all  aspersions 
He  imputes  to  liis  idol  a degree  of  meanness  and  depravity 
more  loathsome  than  judicial  corruption  itself.  A corrupt 
judge  may  have  many  good  qualities.  But  a man  who,  to 
please  a powerful  patron,  solemnly  declares  himself  guilty 
of  corruption  when  he  knows  himself  to  be  innocent,  must 
be  a monster  of  servility  and  impudence.  Bacon  was,  to 
say  nothing  of  his  highest  claims  to  respect,  a gentleman,  a 
nobleman,  a scholar,  a statesman,  a man  of  the  first  consider- 
ation in  society,  a man  far  advanced  in  years.  Is  it  possible 
to  believe  that  such  a man  would,  to  gratify  any  human 
being,  irreparably  ruin  his  own  character  by  his  own  act  ? 
Imagine  a gray-headed  judge,  full  of  years  and  honors,  own- 
ing with  tears,  with  pathetic  assurances  of  his  penitence  and 
of  his  sincerity,  that  he  has  been  guilty  of  shameful  mal 
practices,  repeatedly  asseverating  the  truth  of  his  confession, 
subscribing  it  withjiis  own  hand,  submitting  to  conviction, 
receiving  a humiliating  sentence  and  acknowledging  its 
justice,  and  all  this  when  he  has  it  in  his  power  to  show  that 
his  conduct  has  been  irreproachable  ! The  thing  is  incredible. 
But  if  we  admit  it  to  be  true,  what  must  we  think  of  such  a 
man,  if  indeed  he  deserves  the  name  of  man,  who  thinks  any 
thing  that  kings  and  minions  can  bestow  more  precious 
than  honor,  or  anything  that  they  can  inflict  more  terrible 
than  infamy  ? 

Of  this  most  disgraceful  imputation  we  fully  acquit  Bacon. 
He  had  no  defence  ; anfl  Mr.  Montagu’s  affectionate  attempt 
to  make  a defence  for  him  has  altogether  failed. 

The  grounds  on  which  Mr.  Montagu  rests  the  case  are 
two ; the  first,  that  the  taking  of  presents  was  usual,  and, 
what  he  seems  to  consider  as  the  same  thing,  not  discredit- 
able ; the  second,  that  these  presents  were  not  taken  as 
bribes. 

Mr.  Montagu  brings  forward  many  facts  in  support  of 
his  first  proposition.  He  is  not  content  with  showing  that 
many  English  judges  formerly  received  gifts  from  suitors, 
but  collects  similar  instances  from  foreign  nations  and 
ancient  times.  He  goes  back  to  the  commonwealths  of 
Greece,  and  attempts  to  press  into  his  service  a line  of 
Homer  and  a sentence  of  Plutarch,  which,  we  fear,  will 
hardly  serve  his  turn.  The  gold  of  which  Homer  speaks 
was  not  intended  to  fee  the  judges,  but  was  paid  into  court 
for  the  benefit  of  the  successful  litigant ; and  the  gratuities 


202 


MACAULAY "S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


which  Pei'icles,  as  Plutarch  states,  distributed  among  the 
members  of  the  Athenian  tribunals,  were  legal  wages  paid 
out  of  the  public  revenue.  We  can  supply  Mr.  Montagu 
with  passages  much  more  in  point.  Hesiod,  who  like  poor 
Aubrey,  had  a “ killing  decree  ” made  against  him  in  the 
Chancery  of  Ascra,  forgot  decorum  so  far  that  he  ventured 
to  designate  the  learned  persons  who  presided  in  that  court, 
as  pacrOSjaq  biopocpdyooQ.  Plutarch  and  Diodorus  have  handed 
down  to  the  latest  ages  the  respectable  name  of  Anytus,  the 
son  of  Anthemion,  the  first  defendant  who,  eluding  all  the 
safeguards  which  the  ingenuity  of  Solon  could  devise,  suc- 
ceeded in  corrupting  a bench  of  Athenian  judges.  We  are 
indeed  so  far  from  grudging  Mr.  Montagu  the  aid  of  Greece, 
that  we  will  give  him  Rome  into  the  bargain.  We  acknowl- 
edge that  the  honorable  senators  who  tried  Verres  received 
presents  which  were  worth  more  than  the  fee-simple  of  York 
House  and  Gorhambury  together,  and  that  the  no  less  honor- 
able senators  and  knights  who  professed  to  believe  in  the 
alibi  of  Clodius  obtained  marks  still  more  extraordinary  of 
the  esteem  and  gratitude  of  the  defendant.  In  short,  we 
are  ready  to  admit  that,  before  Bacon’s  time,  and  in  Bacon’s 
time,  judges  were  in  the  habit  of  receiving  gifts  from 
suitors. 

But  is  this  a defence  ? We  think  not.  The  robberies 
of  Cacus  and  Barabbas  are  no  apology  for  those  of  Turpin. 
The  conduct  of  the  two  men  of  Belial  who  swore  away  the 
life  of  Naboth  has  never  been  cited  as  an  excuse  for  the 
perjuries  of  Oates  and  Dangerfield.'  Mr.  Montagu  has  con- 
founded two  things  which  it  is  necessary  carefully  to  distin- 
guish from  each  other,  if  we  wish  to  form  a correct  judg- 
ment of  the  characters  of  men  of  other  countries  and  other 
times.  That  an  immoral  action  is,  in  a particular  society, 
generally  considered  as  innocent,  is  a good  plea  for  an  in- 
dividual who,  being  one  of  that  society,  and  having  adopted 
the  notions  which  prevail  among  his  neighbors,  commits 
that  action.  But  the  circumstance  that  a great  many  peo- 
ple are  in  the  habit  of  committing  immoral  actions  is  no 
plea  at  all.  We  should  think  it  unjust  to  call  St.  Louis  a 
wicked  man,  because  in  an  age  in  which  toleration  was  gen- 
erally regarded  as  a sin,  he  persecuted  heretics.  We  should 
think  it  unjust  to  call  Cowper’s  friend,  John  Newton,  a 
hypocrite  and  monster,  because  at  a time  when  the  slave- 
trade  was  commonly  considered  by  the  most  respectable 
people  as  an  innocent  and  beneficial  traffic,  he  went,  largely 


tout)  BACOtf. 


203 


provided  with  hymn-books  and  handcuffs  on  a Guinea  voy- 
age. But  the  circumstance  that  there  are  twenty  thousand 
thieves  in  London,  is  no  excuse  for  a fellow  who  is  caught 
breaking  into  a shop.  No  man  is  to  be  blamed  for  not 
making  discoveries  in  morality,  for  not  finding  out  that  some- 
thing which  everybody  else  thinks  to  be  good  is  really  bad, 
But,  if  a man  does  that  which  he  and  all  around  him  know 
to  be  bad,  it  is  no  excuse  for  him  that  many  others  have 
done  the  same.  We  should  be  ashamed  of  spending  so 
much  time  in  pointing  out  so  clear  a distinction,  but  that 
Mr.  Montagu  seems  altogether  to  overlook  it. 

Now  to  apply  these  principles  to  the  case  before  us  : let 
Mr.  Montagu  prove  that,  in  Bacon’s  age,  the  practices  for 
which  Bacon  was  punished  were  generally  considered  as  in- 
nocent ; and  we  admit  that  he  has  made  out  his  point.  But 
this  we  defy  him  to  do.  That  these  practices  were  com- 
mon we  admit.  But  they  were  common  just  as  all  wicked- 
ness to  which  there  is  strong  temptation  always  was  and 
always  will  be  common.  They  were  common  just  as  theft, 
cheating,  perjury,  adultery  have  always  been  common. 
They  were  common,  not  because  people  did  not  know  what 
was  right,  but  because  people  liked  to  do  what  was  wrong. 
They  were  common,  though  prohibited  by  law.  They  were 
common,  though  condemned  by  public  opinion.  They  were 
common,  because  in  that  age  law  and  public  opinion  united 
had  not  sufficient  force  to  restrain  the  greediness  of  pow- 
erful and  unprincipled  magistrates.  They  were  common, 
as  every  crime  will  be  common  when  the  gain  to  which  it 
leads  is  great,  and  the  chance  of  punishment  small.  But, 
though  common,  they  were  universally  allowed  to  be  alto- 
gether unjustifiable ; they  were  in  the  highest  degree  odious  ; 
and,  though  many  were  guilty  of  them,  none  had  the  audac 
ity  publicly  to  avow  and  defend  them. 

We  could  give  a thousand  proofs  that  the  opinion  then 
entertained  concerning  these  practices  was  such  as  we  have 
described.  But  we  will  content  ourselves  with  calling  a 
single  witness,  honest  Hugh  Latimer.  His  sermons,  preached 
more  than  seventy  years  before  the  inquiry  into  Bacon’s 
conduct,  abound  with  the  sharpest  invectives  against  those 
very  practices  of  which  Bacon  was  guilty,  and  wdiich,  as 
Mr.  Montagu  seems  to  think,  nobody  ever  considered  as 
blamable  till  Bacon  was  punished  for  them.  We  could 
easily  fill  twenty  pages  with  the  homely,  but  just  and  forcible 
rhetoric  of  the  brave  old  bishop.  We  shall  select  a few 


204  macatjlay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

passages  as  fair  specimens,  and  no  more  than  fair  specimens 
of  the  rest.  “ Omnes  diligunt  munera . They  all  love 
bribes.  Bribery  is  a princely  kind  of  thieving.  They  will 
be  waged  by  the  rich,  either  to  give  sentence  against  the 
poor,  or  to  put  off  the  poor  man’s  cause.  This  is  the  noble 
theft  of  princes  and  magistrates.  They  are  bribe-takers. 
Nowadays  they  call  them  gentle  rewards.  Let  them  leave 
their  coloring,  and  call  them  by  their  Christian  name — 
bribes.”  And  again  : “ Cambyses  was  a great  emperor, 
such  another  as  our  master  is.  He  had  many  lord  d eputies, 
lord  presidents,  and  lieutenants  under  him.  It  is  a great 
while  ago  since  I read  the  history.  It  chanced  he  had 
under  him  in  one  of  his  dominions  a briber,  a gift-taker,  a 
gratifier  of  rich  men ; he  followed  gifts  as  last  as  he  that 
followed  the  pudding,  a handmaker  in  his  office  to  make 
his  son  a great  man,  as  the  old  saying  is : Happy  is  the 
child  whose  father  goeth  to  the  devil.  The  cry  of  the  poor 
widow  came  to  the  emperor’s  ear,  and  caused  him  to  flay 
the  judge  quick,  and  laid  his  skin  in  the  chair  of  judgment, 
that  all  judges  that  should  give  judgment  afterward  should 
sit  in  the  same  skin.  Surely  it  was  a goodly  sign,  a goodly 
monument,  the  sign  of  the  judge’s  skin.  I pray  God  we 
may  once  see  the  skin  in  England.”  “ I am  sure,”  says  he 
in  another  sermon,  “ this  is  sccda  inferni , the  right  way  to 
hell,  to  be  covetous,  to  take  bribes,  and  pervert  justice.  If 
a judge  should  ask  me  the  way  to  hell,  I would  show  him 
this  way.  First,  let  him  be  a covetous  man;  let  his  heart 
be  poisoned  with  covetousness.  Then  let  him  go  a little 
further  and  take  bribes  ; and,  lastly,  pervert  judgment.  Lo, 
here  is  the  mother,  and  the  daughter,  and  the  daughter’s 
daughter.  Avarice  is  the  mother  ; she  brings  forth  bribe- 
taking, and  bribe-taking  perverting  of  judgment.  There 
lacks  a fourth  thing  to  make  up  the  mess,  which,  so  help  me 
God,  if  I were  to  judge,  should  be  hangum  tuum , a Tyburn 
tippet  to  take  with  him  ; an  it  were  the  judge  of  the  King’s 
Bench,  my  Lord  Chief  Judge  of  England,  yea,  an  it  were 
my  Lord  Chancellor  himself,  to  Tyburn  with  him.”  We 
will  quote  but  one  more  passage.  <c  He  that  took  the  silver 
basin  and  ewer  for  a bribe,  thinketh  that  it  will  never  come 
out.  But  he  may  now  know  that  I know  it,  and  I know  it 
not  alone ; there  be  more  beside  me  that  know  it.  Oh, 
briber  and  bribery  ! lie  was  never  a good  man  that  will  so 
take  bribes.  Nor  can  J believe  that  he  that  is  a briber  will 
be  a good  justice.  It  will  never  be  merry  in  England  till  we 


tOUl)  nAOOtt.  205 

have  the  skins  of  such.  For  what  needeth  bribing  where 
men  do  their  things  uprightly  ?” 

This  was  not  the  language  of  a great  philosopher  who 
had  made  new  discoveries  in  moral  and  political  science.  It 
was  the  plain  talk  of  a plain  man,  who  sprang  from  the 
body  of  the  people,  who  sympathized  strongly  with  their 
wants  and  their  feelings,  and  who  boldly  uttered  their  opin- 
ions. It  was  on  account  of  the  fearless  way  in  which  stout- 
hearted old  Hugh  exposed  the  misdeeds  of  men  in  ermine 
tippets  and  gold  collars,  that  the  Londoners  cheered  him,  as 
he  walked  down  the  Strand  to  preach  at  Whitehall,  strug- 
gled for  a touch  of  his  gown,  and  bawled,  “ Have  at  them, 
Father  Latimer.”  It  is  plain,  from  the  passages  which  we 
have  quoted,  and  from  fifty  others  which  we  might  quote, 
that,  long  before  Bacon  was  born,  the  accepting  of  presents 
by  a judge  was  known  to  be  a wicked  and  shameful  act, 
that  the  fine  words  under  which  it  was  the  fashion  to  veil 
such  corrupt  practices  were  even  then  seen  through  by  the 
common  people,  that  the  distinction  on  which  Mr.  Montagu 
insists  between  compliments  and  bribes  was  even  then 
laughed  at  as  a mere  coloring.  There  may  be  some  orator- 
ical exaggeration  in  what  Latimer  says  about  the  Tyburn 
tippet  and  the  sign  of  the  judge’s  skin  ; but  the  fact  that  he 
ventured  to  use  such  expressions  is  amply  sufficient  to 
prove  that  the  gift-taking  judges,  the  receivers  of  silver 
basins  and  ewers,  were  regarded  as  such  pests  of  the  com- 
monwealth that  a venerable  divine  might,  without  any 
breach  of  Christian  charity,  publicly  pray  to  God  for  their 
detection  and  their  condign  punishment. 

Mi*.  Montagu  tells  us,  most  justly,  that  we  ought  not  to 
! ransfer  the  opinions  of  our  age  to  a former  age.  But  he 
bas  himself  committed  a greater  error  than  that  against  which 
lie  has  cautioned  his  readers.  Without  any  evidence,  nay, 
in  the  face  of  the  strongest  evidence,  he  ascribes  to  the 
people  of  a former  age  a set  of  opinions  which  no  people 
ever  held.  But  any  hypothesis  is  in  his  view  more  probable 
than  that  Bacon  should  have  been  a dishonest  man.  We 
lirmly  believe  that,  if  papers  were  to  be  discovered  which 
should  irresistibly  prove  that  Bacon  was  concerned  in  the 
poisoning  of  Sir  Thomas  Overbury,  Mr.  Montagu  would  tell 
us  that,  at  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century,  it  was 
not  thought  improper  in  a man  to  put  arsenic  into  the  broth 
of  his  friends,  and  that  we  ought  to  blame,  not  Bacour  but 
the  age  in  which  he  lived. 


206  MACAULAY^S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

But  why  should  we  have  recourse  to  any  other  evidence, 
when  the  proceeding  against  Lord  Bacon  is  itself  the  best 
evidence  on  the  subject  ? When  Mr.  Montagu  tells  us  that 
we  ought  not  to  transfer  the  opinions  of  our  age  to  Bacon’s 
age,  he  appears  altogether  to  forget  that  it  was  by  men  of 
Bacon’s  own  age  that  Bacon  was  prosecuted,  tried,  convicted, 
and  sentenced.  Did  not  they  know  what  their  own  opin- 
ions were  ? Did  not  they  know  whether  they  thought  the 
taking  of  gifts  by  a judge  a crime  or  not  ? Mr.  Montagu 
complains  bitterly  that  Bacon  was  induced  to  abstain  from 
making  a defence.  But,  if  Bacon’s  defence  resembled  that 
which  is  made  for  him  in  the  volume  before  us,  it  would 
have  been  unnecessary  to  trouble  the  Houses  with  it.  The 
Lords  and  Commons  did  not  want  Bacon  to  tell  them  the 
thoughts  of  their  own  hearts,  to  inform  them  that  they 
did  not  consider  such  practices  as  those  in  which  they  had  de- 
tected him  as  at  all  culpable.  Mr.  Montagu’s  proposition 
may  indeed  be  fairly  stated  thus  : — It  was  very  hard  that 
Bacon’s  contemporaries  should  think  it  wrong  in  him  to  do 
what  they  did  not  think  it  wrong  in  him  to  do.  Hard  in- 
deed ; and  withal  somewhat  improbable.  Will  any  person 
say  that  the  Commons  who  impeached  Bacon  for  taking 
presents,  and  the  Lords  who  sentenced  him  to  fine,  imprison- 
ment, and  degradation  for  taking  presents,  did  not  know 
that  the  taking  of  presents,  was  a crime  ? Or,  will  any 
person  say  that  Bacon  did  not  know  what  the  whole  House 
of  Commons  and  the  whole  House  of  Lords  knew  ? Nobody 
who  is  not  prepared  to  maintain  one  of  these  absurd 
propositions  can  deny  that  Bacon  committed  what  he  knew 
to  be  a crime. 

It  cannot  be  pretended  that  the  Houses  were  seeking 
occasion  to  ruin  Bacon,  and  that  they  therefore  brought 
him  to  punishment  on  charges  which  they  themselves  knew 
to  be  frivolous.  In  no  quarter  was  there  the  faintest  in- 
dication of  a disposition  to  treat  him  harshly.  Through  the 
whole  proceeding  there  was  no  symptom  of  personal 
animosity  or  of  factious  violence  in  either  House.  Indeed, 
we  will  venture  to  say  that  no  State-Trial  in  our  history  is 
more  creditable  to  all  who  took  part  in  it,  either  as  prose- 
cutors or  judges.  The  decency,  the  gravity,  the  public  spirit, 
the  justice  moderated  but  not  unnerved  by  compassion, 
which  appeared  in  every  part  of  the  transaction,  would  do 
honor  to  the  most  respectable  public  men  in  our  own  times. 
The  accusers,  while  they  discharged  their  duty  to  their 


T.obd  uaw 


207 


constituents  by  bringing  the  misdeeds  of  the  Chancellor  to 
light,  spoke  with  admiration  ,of  his  many  eminent  qualities, 
l* he  Lords,  while  condemning  him,  complimented  him  on  the 
ingenuousness  of  his  confession,  and  spared  him  the  humilia- 
tion of  a public  appearance  at  their  bar.  So  strong  was  the 
contagion  of  good  feeling  that  even  Sir  Edward  Coke,  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  behaved  like  a gentleman.  No  crimi- 
nal ever  had  more  temperate  prosecutors  than  Bacon.  No 
criminal  ever  had  more  favorable  judges.  If  he  was  con- 
victed, it  was  because  it  was  impossible  to1  acquit  him  with- 
out offering  the  grossest  outrage  to  justice  and  common 
sense. 

Mr.  Montagu’s  other  argument,  namely,  that  Bacon, 
though  he  took  gifts^  did  not  take  bribes,  seems  to  us  as  futile 
as  that  which  we  have  considered.  Indeed,  we  might  be 
content  to  leave  it  to  be  answered  by  the  plainest  man  among 
our  readers.  Demosthenes  noticed  it  with  contempt  more 
than  two  thousand  years  ago.  Latimer,  we  have  seen, 
treated  this  sophistry  with  similar  disdain.  “ Leave  color- 
ing,” said  he,  “ and  call  these  things  by  their  Christian  name, 
bribes.”  Mr.  Montagu  attempts,  somewhat  unfairly,  we 
must  say,  to  represent  the  presents  which  Bacon  received  as 
similar  to  the  perquisites  which  suitors  paid  to  the  members 
of  the  Parliaments  of  France.  The  French  magistrate  had  a 
legal  right  to  his  fee ; and  the  amount  of  the  fee  was  regu- 
lated by  law.  Whether  this  be  a good  mode  of  remunerating 
judges  is  not  the  question.  But  wrhat  analogy  is  there  be- 
tween payments  of  this  sort  and  the  presents  which  Bacon 
received,  presents  which  were  not  sanctioned  by  the  law, 
which  were  not  made  under  the  public  eye,  and  of  which  the 
amount  was  regu  pated  only  by  private  bargain  between  the 
magistrate  and  the  suitor? 

Again,  it  io  mere  trifling  to  say  that  Bacon  could  not 
have  meant  to  act  corruptly  because  he  employed  the  agency 
of  men  of  rank,  of  bishops,  privy  councillors,  and  members 
of  Parliament  ; as  if  the  whole  history  of  that  generation 
was  not  full  of  the  low  actions  of  high  people  ; as  if  it  was 
not  notorious  that  men,  as  exalted  in  rank  as  any  of  the  de- 
coys that  Bacon  employed,  had  pimped  for  Somerset  and 
poisoned  Overbury. 

But,  says  Mr.  Montagu,  these  presents  “ were  made 
openly  and  with  the  greatest  publicity.”  This  would  indeed 
be  a strong  argument  in  favor  of  Bacon.  But  we  deny  the 
fact.  In  one,  and  one  only,  of  the  cases  in  which  Bacon 


208  macatjlay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

was  accused  of  corruptly  receiving  gifts,  does  he  appear  to 
have  received  a gift  publicly.  This  was  in  a matter  depend- 
ing between  the  Company  of  Apothecaries  and  the  Company 
of  Grocers.  Bacon,  in  his  Confession,  insisted  strongly  on 
the  circumstance  that  he  had  on  this  occasion  taken  a present 
publicly,  as  a proof  that  he  had  not  taken  it  corruptly.  Is 
it  not  clear  that,  if  he  had  taken  the  presents  mentioned  in 
the  other  charges  in  the  same  public  manner,  he  would  have 
dwelt  on  this  point  in  his  answer  to  those  charges  ? The 
fact  that  he  insists  so  strongly  on  the  publicity  of  one  par- 
ticular present  is  of  itself  sufficient  to  prove  that  the  other 
presents  were  not  publicly  taken.  Why  he  took  this  present 
publicly  and  the  rest  secretly,  is  evident.  He  on  that  oc- 
casion acted  openly,  because  he  was  acting  honestly.  He 
was  not  on  that  occasion  sitting  judicially.  He  was  called 
in  to  effect  an  amicable  arrangement  between  two  parties. 
Both  were  satisfied  with  his  decision.  Both  joined  in  making 
him  a present  in  return  for  his  trouble.  Whether  it  was 
quite  delicate  in  a man  of  his  rank  to  accept  a present  under 
such  circumstances,  may  be  questioned.  But  there  is  no 
ground  in  this  case  for  accusing  him  of  corruption. 

Unhappily,  the  very  circumstances  which  prove  him  to 
have  been  innocent  in  this  case  prove  him  to  have  been 
guilty  on  the  other  charges.  Once,  and  once  only,  he  alleges 
that  he  received  a present  publicly.  The  natural  inference 
is  that  in  all  the  other  cases  mentioned  in  the  articles 
against  him  he  received  presents  secretly.  When  we  exam- 
ine the  single  case  in  which  he  alleges  that  he  received  a 
present  publicly,  we  find  that  it  is  also  the  single  case  in 
which  there  was  no  gross  impropriety  in  his  receiving  a 
present.  Is  it  then  possible  to  doubt  that  his  reason  for  not 
receiving  other  presents  in  as  public  a manner  was  that  he 
knew  that  it  was  wrong  to  receive  them  ? 

One  argument  still  remains,  plausible  in  appearance,  but 
admitting  of  easy  and  complete  refutation.  The  two  chief 
complainants,  Aubrey  and  Egerton,  had  both  made  presents 
to  the  Chancellor.  But  he  had  decided  against  them  both. 
Therefore,  he  had  not  received  those  presents  as  bribes.  “ The 
complaints  of  his  accusers  were,”  says  Mr.  Montagu,  “ not 
that  the  gratuities  had,  but  that  they  had  not  influenced 
Bacon’s  judgment,  as  he  had  decided  against  them.” 

The  truth  is,  that  it  is  precisely  in  this  way  that  an  ex- 
tensive system  of  corruption  is  generally  detected.  A per- 
son who,  by  a bribe,  has  procured  a decree  in  his  favor,  is 


LORD  BACON. 


209 


by  no  means  likely  to  come  forward  of  his  own  accord  as 
an  accuser.  He  is  content.  He  has  his  quid  pro  quo . He 
is  not  impelled  either  by  interested  or  by  vindictive  motives 
to  bring  the  transaction  before  the  public.  On  the  contrary, 
he  has  almost  as  strong  motives  for  holding  his  tongue  as 
the  judge  himself  can  have.  But  when  a judge  practices  cor- 
ruption, as  we  fear  that  Bacon  practiced  it,  on  a large  scale, 
and  has  many  agents  looking  out  in  different  quarters  for 
prey,  it  will  sometimes  happen  that  he  will  be  bribed  on  both 
sides.  It  will  sometimes  happen  that  he  will  receive  money 
from  suitors  who  are  so  obviously  in  the  wrong  that  he  can- 
not with  decency  do  anything  to  serve  them.  Thus  he  will 
now  and  then  be  forced  to  pronounce  against  a person  from 
whom  he  has  received  a present ; and  he  makes  that  person 
a deadly  enemy.  The  hundreds  who  have  get  what  they 
paid  for  remain  quiet.  It  is  the  two  or  three  who  have 
paid,  and  have  nothing  to  show  for  their  money,  who  are 
noisy. 

The  memorable  case  of  the  Goezmans  is  an  example  of 
this.  Beaumarchais  had  an  important  suit  depending  be- 
fore the  Parliament  of  Paris.  M.  Goezman  was  the  judge 
on  whom  chiefly  the  decision  depended.  It  was  hinted  to 
Beaumarchais  that  Madame  Goezman  might  be  propitiated 
by  a present.  He  accordingly  offered  a purse  of  gold  to 
the  lady,  who  received  it  graciously.  There  can  be  no  doubt 
that,  if  the  decision  of  the  court  had  been  favorable  to  him, 
these  things  would  never  have  been  known  to  the  world. 
But  he  lost  his  cause.  Almost  the  whole  sum  which  he  had 
expended  in  bribery  was  immediately  refunded  ; and  those 
who  had  disappointed  him  probably  thought  that  lie  would 
not,  for  the  mere  gratification  of  his  malevolence,  make  pub- 
lic a transaction  which  was  discreditable  to  himself  as  well 
as  to  them.  They  knew  little  of  him.  He  soon  taught 
them  to  curse  the  day  in  which  they  had  dared  tp  trifle  with 
a man  of  so  revengeful  and  turbulent  a spirit,  of  such 
dauntless  effrontery,  and  of  such  eminent  talents  for  con- 
troversy and  jmtire.  He  compelled  the  Parliament  to  put  a 
degrading  stigma  on  M.  Goezman.  He  drove  Madame 
Goezman  to  a convent.  Till  it  was  too  late  to  pause,  his  ex- 
cited passions  did  not  suffer  him  to  remember  that  he  could 
effect  their  ruin  only  by  disclosures  ruinous  to  himself.  We 
could  give  other  instances.  But  it  is  needless.  No  person 
well  acquainted  with  human  nature  can  fail  to  perceive  that, 
ii  the  doctrine  for  which  Mr.  Montagu  contends,  were  ad- 
Vol.  II.— 14 


210  MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

mitted,  society  would  be  deprived  of  almost  the  only  chance 
which  it  has  of  detecting  the  corrupt  practices  of  judges. 

We  return  to  our  narrative.  The  sentence  of  Bacon 
had  scarcely  been  pronounced  when  it  was  mitigated.  lie 
was  indeed  sent  to  the  Tower.  But  this  was  merely  a form. 
In  two  days  he  was  set  at  liberty,  and  soon  after  he  retired 
to  Gorhambury.  His  fine  was  speedily  released  by  the 
Crown.  He  was  next  suffered  to  present  himself  at  Court ; 
and  at  length,  in  1624,  the  rest  of  his  punishment  was  re- 
mitted. He  was  now  at  liberty  to  resume  his  seat  in  the 
House  of  Lords,  and  he  was  actually  summoned  to  the  next 
Parliament.  But  age,  infirmity,  and  perhaps  shame,  pre- 
vented him  from  attending.  The  Government  allowed  him 
a pension  of  twelve  hundred  pounds  a year ; and  his  whole 
annual  income  is  estimated  by  Mr.  Motagu  at  two  thousand 
five  hundred  pounds,  a sum  which  was  probably  above  the 
average  income  of  a nobleman  of  that  generation,  and  which 
was  certainly  sufficient  for  comfort  and  even  for  splendor. 
Unhappily,  Bacon  was  fond  of  display,  and  unused  to  pay 
minute  attention  to  domestic  affairs.  He  was  not  easily 
persuaded  to  give  up  any  part  of  the  magnificence  to  which 
he  had  been  accustomed  in  the  time  of  his  power  and  pros- 
perity. No  pressure  of  distress  could  induce  him  to  part 
with  the  woods  of  Gorhambury.  “I  will  not,”  he  said,  “be 
stripped  of  my  feathers.”  He  travelled  with  so  splendid 
an  equipage  and  so  large  a retinue  that  Prince  Charles,  who 
once  fell  in  with  him  on  the  road,  exclaimed  with  surprise, 
“ Well ; do  what  we  can,  this  man  scorns  to  go  out  in  snuff.” 
This  carelessness  and  ostentation  reduced  Bacon  to  frequent 
distress.  He  was  under  the  necessity  of  parting  with  York 
House,  and  of  taking  up  his  residence,  during  his  visits  to 
London,  at  his  old  chambers  in  Gray’s  Inn.  He  had  other 
vexations,  the  exact  nature  of  ivhich  is  unknown.  It  is 
evident  from  his  will  that  some  part  of  his  wife’s  conduct 
had  greatly  disturbed  and  irritated  him. 

But,  whatever  might  be  his  pecuniary  difficulties  or  his 
conjugal  discomforts,  the  powers  of  his  intellect  still  re- 
mained undiminished.  Those  noble  studies  for  which  ho 
had  found  leisure  in  the  midst  of  professional  drudgery  and 
of  courtly  intrigues  gave  to  this  last  sad  stage  of  liis  life  a 
dignity  beyond  what  power  or  titles  could  bestow.  Im- 
peached, convicted,  sentenced,  driven  with  ignominy  from 
the  presence  of  hi3  Sovereign,  shut  out  from  the  delibera- 
tions of  his  fellow  nobles,  loaded  with  debt,  branded  with 


LO nt>  BACOX. 


211 


dishonor,  sinking  under  the  weight  of  years,  sorrows,  and 
diseases,  Bacon  Avas  Bacon  still.  44  My  conceit  of  his  per< 
son,”  says  Ben  Jonson  very  finely,  44  was  never  increased 
towards  him  by  his  place  of  honors ; but  I have  and  do 
reverence  him  for  the  greatness  that  was  only  proper  to 
himself ; in  that  he  seemed  to  me  ever,  by  his  work,  one  of 
the  greatest  men  and  most  worthy  of  admiration,  that  had 
been  in  many  ages.  In  his  adversity  I ever  prayed  that  God 
would  give  him  strength ; for  greatness  he  could  not  Avant.” 

The  services  which  Bacon  rendered  to  letters  during  the 
last  five  years  of  his  life,  amidst  ten  thousand  distractions 
and  vexations,  increase  the  regret  with  Avhich  we  think  on 
the  many  years  which  he  had  wasted,  to  use  the  Avords  of  Sir 
Thomas  Bodley,  44  on  such  study  as  Avas  not  Avorthy  of  such 
a student.”  He  commenced  a Digest  of  the  Laws  of  Eng- 
land, a History  of  England  under  the  Princes  of  the  House 
of  Tudor,  a body  of  Natural  History,  Philosophical  Ro- 
mance. He  made  extensive  and  valuable  additions  to  his 
Essays.  He  published  the  inestimable  Treatise  De  Augment 
tis  Scientiarum.  The  very  trifles  with  Avhich  he  amused 
himself  in  hours  of  pain  and  languor  bore  the  mark  of  his 
mind.  The  best  collection  of  jests  in  the  world  is  that 
which  he  dictated  from  memory  without  referring  to  any 
book,  on  a day  on  which  illness  had  rendered  him  incapable 
of  serious  study. 

The  great  apostle  of  experimental  philosophy  was  des- 
tined to  be  its  martyr.  It  had  occurred  to  him  that  siioav 
might  be  used  Avith  advantage  for  the  purpose  of  prevent- 
ing animal  substances  from  putrefying.  On  a very  cold  day 
early  in  the  spring  of  the  year  1626,  he  alighted  from  his 
coach  near  Highgate,  in  order  to  try  the  experiment.  He 
went  into  a cottage,  bought  a fowl,  and  with  his  own  hands 
stuffed  it  Avith  snoAV.  While  thus  engaged  he  felt  a sudden 
chill,  and  Avas  soon  so  much  indisposed  that  it  was  impos- 
sible  for  him  to  return  to  Gray’s  Inn.  The  Earl  of  Arundel, 
with  whom  he  Avas  Avell  acquainted,  had  a house  at  High- 
gate. To  that  house  Bacon  A\ras  carried.  The  Earl  was 
absent ; but  the  servants  avIio  were  in  charge  of  the  place 
shoAved  great  respect  and  attention  to  the  illustrious  guest. 
Here,  after  an  illness  of  about  a Aveek,  he  expired  early  on  the 
morning  of  Easter-day,  1626.  His  mind  appears  to  have  re- 
tained its  strength  and  liveliness  to  the  end  He  did  not 
forget  the  fowl  Avhich  had  caused  his  death.  In  the  last  let- 
ter that  he  wrote,  with  fingers  which,  as  he  said,  could  not 


212  MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

steadily  hold  a pen,  he  did  not  omit  to  mention  that  the  ex- 
periment of  the  snow  had  succeeded  “ excellently  well.” 

Our  opinion  of  the  moral  character  of  this  great  man  has 
already  been  sufficiently  explained.  Had  his  life  been  passed 
in  literary  retirement,  he  would,  in  all  probability,  have  de- 
served to  be  considered,  not  only  as  a great  philosopher,  but 
as  a worthy  and  good-natured  member  of  society.  But 
neither  his  principles  nor  his  spirits  were  such  as  could  be 
trusted,  when  strong  temptations  were  to  be  resisted,  and 
serious  dangers  to  be  braved. 

In  his  will  he  expressed  with  singular  brevity,  energy,  dig- 
nity, and  pathos,  a mournful  consciousness  that  his  actions  had 
not  been  such  as  to  entitle  him  to  the  esteem  of  those  under 
whose  observation  his  life  had  been  passed,  and  at  the  same 
time  a proud  confidence  that  his  writings  had  secured  for  him 
a high  and  permanent  place  among  the  benefactors  of  man- 
kind. So  at  least  we  understand  those  striking  words  which 
have  been  often  quoted,  but  which  we  must  quote  once 
more:  “For  my  name  and  memory,  I leave  it  to  men’s 
charitable  speeches,  and  to  foreign  nations,  and  to  the  next 
age.” 

His  confidence  was  just.  From  the  day  of  his  death  his 
fame  has  been  constantly  and  steadily  progressive  ; and  we 
have  no  doubt  that  his  name  will  be  named  with  reverence 
to  the  latest  ages,  and  to  the  remotest  ends  of  the  civilized 
world. 

The  chief  peculiarity  of  Bacon’s  philosophy  seems  to  us 
to  have  been  this,  that  it  aimed  at  things  altogether  different 
from  those  which  his  predecessors  had  proposed  to  them- 
selves. This  was  his  own  opinion.  “Finis  scientiarum,” 
says  he,  “ a nemine  adhuc  bene  positus  est.”  * And  again, 
“ Omnium  gravissimus  error  in  deviatione  ab  ultimo  doctri- 
narum  fine  consistit.”  t “Nec  ipsa  meta,”  says  he  else- 
where, “ adhuc  ulli,  quod  sciam,  mortalium  posita  est  et 
defixa.”  t The  more  carefully  his  works  are  examined,  the 
more  clearly,  we  think,  it  will  appear  that  this  is  the  real 
clue  to  the  whole  system,  and  that  he  used  means  different 
from  those  used  by  other  philosophers,  because  he  wished 
to  arrive  at  an  end  altogether  different  from  theirs. 

What  then  was  the  end  which  Bacon  proposed  to  him- 
self? It  was,  to  use  his  own  emphatic  expression,  “fruit.” 
It  was  the  multiplying  of  human  enjoyments  and  the  mitigae 

• Novum,  Organum , Lib,  1.  Aph.  81,  t Augmmtis , Lib.  L 

I Cogitata  et  visa, 


LORD  BACONS 


213 


ting  of  human  sufferings.  It  was  “ the  relief  of  man’s  es- 
tate.” * It  was  “ commodis  humanis  inservire.”  f It  was 
“ efficaciter  operari  ad  sublevanda  vitae  humanae  incommo- 
da.”  f It  was  “ dotare  vitam  human  amnovis  inventis  et 
copiis.”  § It  was  “ genus  humanum  novis  operibus  et  po- 
testatibus  continuo  dotare.”  ||  This  was  the  object  of  all 
his  speculations  in  every  department  of  science,  in  natural 
philosophy,  in  legislation,  in  politics,  in  morals. 

Two  words  form  the  key  of  the  Baconian  doctrine, 
Utility  and  Progress.  The  ancient  philosophy  disdained  to 
be  useful,  and  was  content  to  be' stationary.  It  dealt  largely 
in  theories  of  moral  perfection,  which  were  so  sublime  that 
they  never  could  be  more  than  theories ; in  attempts  to 
solve  insoluble  enigmas ; in  exhortations  to  the  attainment  of 
unattainable  frames  of  mind.  It  could  not  condescend  to 
the  humble  office  of  ministering  to  the  comfort  of  human 
beings.  All  the  schools  contemned  that  office  as  degrading ; 
some  censured  it  as  immoral.  Once  indeed  Posidonius,  a 
distinguished  writer  of  the  age  of  Cicero  and  Caesar,  so  far 
forgot  himself  as  to  enumerate,  among  the  humbler  blessings 
which  mankind  owed  to  philosophy,  the  discovery  of  the 
principle  of  the  arch,  and  the  introduction  of  the  use  of 
metals.  This  eulogy  was  considered  as  an  affront,  and  was 
taken  up  with  proper  spirit.  Seneca  vehemently  disclaims 
these  insulting  compliments.  IT  Philosophy,  according  to 
him,  has  nothing  to  do  with  teaching  men  to  rear  arched 
roofs  over  their  heads.  The  true  philosopher  does  not  care 
whether  he  has  an  arched  roof  or  any  roof.  Philosophy  has 
nothing  to  do  with  teaching  men  the  uses  of  metals.  She 
teaches  us  to  be  independent  of  all  material  substances,  of 
all  mechanical  contrivances.  The  wise  man  lives  according 
to  nature.  Instead  of  attempting  to  add  to  the  physical 
comforts  of  his  species,  he  regrets  that  his  lot  was  not  cast 
in  that  golden  age  when  the  human  race  had  no  protection 
against  the  cold  but  the  skins  of  wild  beasts,  no  screen  from 
the  sun  but  a cavern.  To  impute  to  such  a man  any  share 
in  the  invention  or  improvement  of  a plough,  a ship,  or  a 
mill,  is  an  insult.  “In  my  own  time,”  says  Seneca,  “there 
have  been  inventions  of  this  sort,  transparent  windows,  tubes 
for  diffusing  warmth  equally  through  all  parts  of  a building, 
short-hand,  which  has  been  carried  to  such  a perfection  that 

* Advancement,  of  Learning , Book  1. 

t Be  Augumentis , Lib.  7.  Oap.  1 . % lb.  Lib.  2.  Cap.  2. 

§ Novum  Organum,  Lib,  1.  Aph.  8L  I]  Cogitata  et  vita. 

t Soneca,  JSpist . 90. 


214 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings* 


a writer  can  keep  pace  with  the  most  rapid  speaker.  But 
the  inventing  of  such  things  is  drudgery  for  the  lowest 
slaves;  philosophy  lies  deeper.  It  is  not  her  office  to  teach 
men  how  to  use  their  hands.  The  object  of  her  lessons  is  to 
form  the  soul.  Non  est , inquam , instrumentorum  ad  uses 
necessarios  opifex .”  If  the  non  were  left  out,  this  last  sen- 
tence would  be  no  bad  description  of  the  Baconian  philos- 
ophy, and  would,  indeed,  very  much  resemble  several  ex- 
pressions in  the  Novum  Organum.  u We  shall  next  be  told,” 
exclaims  Seneca,  u that  the  first  shoemaker  was  a philoso- 
I her.”  F or  our  own  part,  if  we  are  forced  to  make  our  choice 
between  the  first  shoemaker,  and  the  author  of  the  three 
books  On  Anger,  we  pronounce  for  the  shoemaker.  It  may 
be  worse  to  be  angry  than  to  be  wet.  But  shoes  have  kept 
millions  from  being  wet ; and  we  doubt  whether  Seneca  ever 
kept  anybody  from  being  angry. 

It  is  very  reluctantly  that  Seneca  can  be  brought  to  con- 
fess that  any  philosopher  had  ever  paid  the  smallest  attention 
to  anything  that  could  possibly  promote  what  vulgar  people 
would  consider  as  the  well-being  of  mankind.  He  labors  to 
clear  Democritus  from  the  disgraceful  imputation  of  having 
made  the  first  arch,  and  Anacharsis  from  the  charge  of  hav- 
ing contrived  the  potter’s  wheel.  He  is  forced  to  own  that 
such  a thing  might  happen  ; and  it  may  also  happen,  he  tells 
us,  that  a philosopher  may  be  swift  of  foot.  But  it  is  not  in 
his  character  of  philosopher  that  he  either  wins  a race  or 
invents  a machine.  No,  to  be  sure.  The  business  of  a phil- 
osopher was  to  declaim  in  praise  of  poverty,  with  two  mil- 
lions sterling  out  at  usury,  to  meditate  epigrammatic  con- 
ceits about  the  evils  of  luxury,  in  gardens  which  moved 
the  envy  of  sovereigns,  to  rant  about  liberty,  while  fawning 
on  the  insolent  and  pampered  freedom  of  a tyrant,  to  cele- 
brate the  divine  beauty  of  virtue  with  the  same  pen  which 
h ad  just  before  written  a defence  of  the  murder  of  a mother 
Jjy  a son. 

From  the  cant  of  this  philosophy,  a philosophy  meanly 
proud  of  its  own  unprofitableness,  it  is  delightful  to  turn  to 
the  letters  of  the  great  English  teacher.  We  can  almost 
forgive  all  the  faults  of  Bacon’s  life  when  we  read  that  sin- 
gularly graceful  and  dignified  passage : “ Ego  ccrte,  ut  de 
me  ipso,  quod  res  est,  loquar,  et  in  iis  quae  nunc  edo,  et  in  iis 
quae  in  pesterum  meditor,  dignitatum  ingenii  et  nominis 
mei,  si  qua  sit,  saepius  sciens  et  volens  projicio,  dum  commo- 
dis  humanis  mserviam  ; quique  architectus  fortasse  in  philos* 


LORD  BACON* 


215 

ophia  et  scientiis  esse  debeam,  etiam  oj  erarius,  et  bajulus,  et 
quid  vis  .demum  fio,  cum  haud  pauca  quse  omnino  fieri  necesse 
sit,  alii  autem  ob  innatam  superbiam  subterfugiant,  ij)se  sus- 
tineam  et  exsequar.” # This  philanthropia , which,  as  he 
said  in  one  of  the  most  remarkable  of  his  early  letters,  “ was 
so  fixed  in  his  mind,  as  it  could  not  be  removed,”  this  majes- 
tic humility,  this  persuasion  that  nothing  can  be  too  insigni- 
ficant for  the  attention  of  the  wusest,  which  is  not  too  insig- 
nificant to  give  pleasure  or  pain  to  the  meanest,  is  the  great 
characteristic  distinction,  the  essential  spirit  of  the  Baco- 
nian philosophy.  We  trace  it  in  all  that  Bacon  has  written 
on  Physics,  on  Laws,  on  Morals.  And  we  conceive  that 
from  this  peculiarity  all  the  other  peculiarities  of  his  system 
directly  and  almost  necessarily  sprang. 

The  spirit  which  appears  in  the  passage  of  Seneca  to 
which  we  have  referred,  tainted  the  wThole  body  of  the  an- 
cient philosophy  from  the  time  of  Socrates  dowrn  wards,  and 
took  possession  of  intellects  with  which  that  of  Seneca  can- 
not for  a moment  be  comjDared.  It  pervades  the  dialogues 
of  Plato.  It  may  be  distinctly  traced  in  many  parts  of  the 
works  of  Aristotle.  Bacon  has  dropped  hints,  from  which 
it  may  be  inferred  that,  in  his  opinion,  the  prevalence  of  this 
feeling  was  in  a great  measure  to  be  attributed  to  the  influ- 
ence of  Socrates.  Our  great  countryman  evidently  did  not 
consider  the  revolution  which  Socrates  effected  in  philosophy 
as  a happy  event,  and  constantly  maintained  that  the  earlier 
Greek  speculators,  Democritus  in  particular,  were,  on  the 
whole,  superior  to  their  more  celebrated  successors.! 

Assuredly  if  the  tree  which  Socrates  planted  and  Plato 
watered  is  to  be  judged  of  by  its  flowers  and  leaves,  it  is 
the  noblest  of  trees.  But  if  we  take  the  homely  test  of 
Bacon,  if  we  judge  of  the  tree  by  its  fruits,  our  opinion  of  it 
may  perhaps  be  less  favorable.  When  we  sum  up  all  the 
useful  truths  which  we  owe  to  that  philosophy,  to  what  do 
they  amount?  We  find,  indeed,  abundant  proofs  that  some 
of  those  who  cultivated  it  were  men  of  the  first  order  of 
intellect.  We  find  among  their  writings  incomparable  speci- 
mens both  of  dialectical  and  rhetorical  art.  We  have  no 
doubt  that  the  ancient  controversies  were  of  use,  in  so  far 
as  they  served  to  exercise  the  faculties  of  the  disputants  ; for 
there  is  no  controversy  so  idle  that  it  may  not  be  of  use  in 

* De  Augmentis,  Lib.  7.  Cap  \ 

t Novum  Organum , Lib.  1.  Apb  Lb  79,  Xje  Angme.ntns , T/b.  3,  Cap.  4.  De 
Principiis  atque  originibus.  ' <zt  ite^argutic  pAuosopb  airum. 


216  . macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

this  way.  But,  when  we  look  for  something  more,  for  some- 
thing which  adds  to  the  comforts  or  alleviates  the  calamities 
of  the  human  race,  we  are  forced  to  own  ourselves  disap- 
pointed. We  are  forced  to  say  with  Bacon  that  this  cele- 
brated philosophy  ended  in  nothing  but  disputation,  that  it 
was  neither  a vineyard  nor  an  olive-ground,  but  an  intricate 
wood  of  briars  and  thistles,  from  which  those  who  lost  them- 
selves in  it  brought  back  many  scratches  and  no  food.* 

We  readily  acknowledge  that  some  of  the  teachers  of 
this  unfruitful  wisdom  were  among  the  greatest  men  that 
the  world  has  ever  seen.  If  we  admit  the  justice  of  Bacon’s 
censure,  we  admit  it  with  regret,  similar  to  that  which 
Dante  felt  when  he  learned  the  fate  of  those  illustrious  hea- 
thens who  were  doomed  to  the  first  circle  of  Hell. 

- **  Gran  duol  mi  prese  al  cuor  quando  lo  ’ntesi, 

Perocche  gente  di  molto  valore 
Conobbi  che  ’n  quel  limbo  eran  sospesi.” 

But  in  truth  the  very  admiration  which  we  feel  for  the 
eminent  philosophers  of  antiquity  forces  us  to  adopt  the 
opinion  that  their  powers  were  systematically  misdirected. 
For  how  else  could  it  be  that  such  powers  should  effect  so 
little  for  mankind  ? A pedestrian  may  show  as  much  mus- 
cular vigor  on  a treadmill  as  on  the  highway  road.  But  on 
the  road  his  vigor  will  assuredly  carry  him  forward  ; and 
on  the  treadmill  he  will  not  advance  an  inch.  The  ancient 
philosophy  was  a treadmill,  not  a path.  It  was  made  up  by 
revolving  questions,  of  controversies  which  were  always  be- 
ginning again.  It  was  a contrivance  for  having  much 
exertion  and  no  progress.  We  must  acknowledge  that  more 
than  once,  while  contemplating  the  doctrines  of  the  Academy 
and  the  Portico,  even  as  they  appear  in  the  transparent 
splendor  of  Cicero’s  incomparable  diction,  we  have  been 
tempted  to  mutter  with  the  surly  centurion  in  Persius, 
“ Cur  quis  non  prandeat  hoc  est  ? ” What  is  the  highest 
good,  whether  pain  be  an  evil,  whether  all  things  be  fated, 
whether  we  can  be  certain  of  anything,  whether  we  can  be 
certain  that  we  are  certain  of  nothing,  whether  a wise  man 
can  be  unhappy,  whether  all  departures  from  right  be 
equally  reprehensible,  these,  and  other  questions  of  the 
same  sort,  occupied  the  brains,  the  tongues,  and  the  pens  of 
the  ablest  men  in  the  civilized  world  during  several  cen- 
turies. This  sort  of  philosophy,  it  is  evident,  could  not  bo 

* Novum  Oryanum , Lib.  1.  Aph.  73, 


tORD  BACOtf. 


21? 


progressive.  It  might  indeed  sharpen  and  invigorate  the 
minds  of  those  who  devoted  themselves  to  it ; and  so  might 
the  disputes  of  the  orthodox  Lilliputians  and  the  heretical 
Blefuscudians  about  the  big  ends  and  the  little  ends  of  eggs. 
But  such  disputes  could  add  nothing  to  the  stock  of  knowl- 
edge. The  human  mind  accordingly,  instead  of  marching, 
merely  marked  time.  It  took  as  much  trouble  as  would 
have  sufficed  to  carry  it  forward,  and  yet  remained  on  the 
same  spot.  There  was  no  accumulation  of  truth,  no  herit- 
age of  truth  acquired  by  the  labor  of  one  generation  and 
bequeathed  to  another,  to  be  again  transmitted  with  larger 
additions  to  a third.  Where  this  philosophy  was  in  the 
time  of  Cicero,  there  it  continued  to  be  in  the  time  of 
Seneca,  and  there  it  continued  to  be  in  the  time  of  Favo- 
rinus.  The  same  sects  were  still  battling  with  the  same  un- 
satisfactory arguments  about  the  same  interminable  ques- 
tions. There  had  been  no  want  of  ingenuity,  of  zeal,  of  in- 
dustry. Every  trace  of  intellectual  cultivation  was  there, 
except  a harvest.  There  had  been  plenty  of  ploughing, 
harrowing,  reaping,  threshing.  But  the  garners  contained 
only  smut  and  stubble. 

The  ancient  philosophers  did  not  neglect  natural  science ; 
but  they  did  not  cultivate  it  for  the  purpose  of  increasing 
the  power  and  ameliorating  the  condition  of  man.  The 
taint  of  barrenness  had  spread  from  ethical  to  physical 
speculations.  Seneca  wrote  largely  on  natural  philosophy, 
and  magnified  the  importance  of  that  study.  But  why  ? 
Not  because  it  tended  to  assuage  suffering,  to  multiply  the 
conveniences  of  life,  to  extend  the  empire  of  man  over  the 
material  world ; but  solely  because  it  tended  to  raise  the 
mind  above  low  cares,  to  separate  it  from  the  body,  to 
exercise  its  subtility  in  the  solution  of  very  obscure  ques- 
tions. * Thus  natural  philosophy  was  considered  in  the 
light  merely  of  a mental  exercise.  It  was  made  subsidiary 
to  the  art  of  disputation  ; and  it  consequently  proved  alto- 
gcthei  barren  of  useful  discoveries. 

There  was  one  sect  which,  however  absurd  and  per- 
nicious some  of  its  doctrines  may  have  been,  ought,  it  should 
seem,  to  have  merited  an  exception  from  the  general  cen- 
sure which  Bacon  has  pronounced  on  the  ancient  schools  of 
wisdom.  The  Epicurean,  who  referred  all  happiness  to 
bodily  pleasure,  and  all  evil  to  bodily  pain,  might  have 
been  expected  to  exert  himself  for  the  purpose  of  bettering 
* Seneca,  KaU  Qu&st,  pr&f,  Lib,  3. 


218  MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

his  own  physical  condition  and  that  of  his  neighbors.  But 
the  thought  seems  never  to  have  occurred  to  any  member 
of  that  school.  Indeed  their  notion,  as  reported  by  their 
great  poet,  was,  that  no  more  improvements  were  to  be  ex- 
pected in  the  arts  which  conduce  to  the  comfort  of  life. 

“ Ad  victura  quae  flagitat  usus 
Omnia  jam  ferme  mortalibus  essq  parata.” 

This  contented  despondency,  this  disposition  to  admire 
what  had  been  done,  and  to  expect  that  nothing  more  will 
be  done,  is  strongly  characteristic  of  all  the  schools  which 
preceded  the  school  of  Fruit  and  Progress.  Widely  as  the 
Epicurean  and  the  Stoic  differed  on  most  points,  they  seem 
to  have  quite  agreed  in  their  contempt  for  pursuits  so  vul- 
gar as  to  be  useful.  The  philosophy  of  both  was  a garru- 
lous, declaiming,  canting,  wrangling  philosophy.  Century 
after  century  they  continued  to  repeat  their  hostile  war- 
cries,  Virtue  and  Pleasure  ; and  in  the  end  it  appeared  that 
the  Epicurean  had  added  as  little  to  the  quantity  of  pleasure 
as  the  Stoic  to  the  quantity  of  virtue.  It  is  on  the  pedestal 
of  Bacon,  not  on  that  ol  Epicurus,  that  those  noble  lines 
ought  to  be  inscribed  : 

“ O tenebris  tantis  tam  clarum  extoll  ere  lumen 
Qui  primus  potuisti,  illustrans  commoda  vitae.* 

In  the  fifth  century  Christianity  had  conquered  Pagan- 
ism, and  Paganism  had  infected  Christianity.  The  Church 
was  now  victorious  and  corrupt.  The  rites  of  the  Pan- 
theon had  passed  into  her  worship,  the  subtilties  of  the 
Academy  into  her  creed.  In  an  evil  day,  though  with  great 
pomp  and  solemnity, — we  quote  the  language  of  Bacon,— 
was  the  ill-starred  alliance  stricken  between  the  old  phil- 
osophy  and  the  new  faith.*  Questions  widely  different 
from  those  which  had  employed  the  ingenuity  of  Pyrrho 
and  Carneades,  but  just  as  subtle,  just  as  interminable,  and 
just  as  unprofitable,  exercised  the  minds  of  the  lively  and 
voluble  Greeks.  When  learning  began  to  revive  in  the 
West,  similar  trifles  occupied  the  sharp  and  vigorous  intel- 
lects of  the  Schoolmen.  There  was  another  sowing  of  the 
wind,  and  another  reaping  of  the  whirlwind.  The  great 
work  of  improving  the  condition  of  the  human  race  wa* 
still  considered  as  unworthy  of  a man  of  learning.  Thos* 
who  undertook  that  task,  if  what  they  effected  could  b 

* Copitata  et  visa* 


LORD  BACON. 


219 


readily  comprehended,  were  despised  as  mechanics ; if  not. 
they  were  in  danger  of  being  burned  as  conjurers. 

There  cannot  be  a stronger  proof  of  the  degree  in  which 
the  human  mind  had  been  misdirected  than  the  history  of 
the  two  greatest  events  which  took  place  during  the  middle 
ages.  We  speak  of  the  invention  of  Gunpowder  and  of  the 
invention  of  Printing.  The  dates  of  both  are  unknown. 
The  authors  of  both  are  unknown.  Nor  was  this  because 
men  were  too  rude  and  ignorant  to  value  intellectual  superi- 
ority. The  inventor  of  gunpowder  seems  to  have  been 
contemporary  with  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio.  The  inventor 
of  printing  was  certainly  contemporary  with  Nicholas  the 
Fifth,  with  Cosmo  de’  Medici,  and  with  a crowd  of  dis- 
tinguished scholars.  But  the  human  mind  still  retained  that 
fatal  bent  which  it  had  received  two  thousand  years  earlier. 
George  of  Trebisond  and  Marsilio  Ficino  would  not  easily 
have  been  brought  to  believe  that  the  inventor  of  the  print- 
ing-press had  done  more  for  mankind  than  themselves,  or 
than  those  ancient  writers  of  whom  they  were  the  enthusi- 
astic votaries. 

At  length  the  time  arrived  when  the  barren  philosophy 
which  had,  during  so  many  ages,  employed  the  faculties  of 
the  ablest  of  men,  was  destined  to  fall.  It  had  worn  many 
shapes.  It  had  mingled  itself  with  many  creeds.  It  had 
survived  revolutions  in  which  empires,  religions,  languages, 
races,  had  perished.  Driven  from  its  ancient  haunts,  it 
had  taken  sanctuary  in  that  Church  which  it  had  persecuted, 
and  had,  like  the  daring  fiends  of  the  poet,  placed  its  seat 

“ next  the  seat  of  God, 

And  with  its  darkness  dared  affront  his  light.’ * 

Words,  and  more  words,  and  nothing  but  words,  had 
been  all  the  fruit  of  all  the  toil  of  all  the  most  renowned 
sages  of  sixty  generations.  But  the  days  of  this  sterile  ex- 
uberance were  numbered. 

Many  causes  predisposed  the  public  mind  to  a change. 
The  study  of  a great  variety  of  ancient  writers,  though  it 
did  not  give  a right  direction  to  philosophical  research,  did 
much  towards  destroying  that  blind  reverence  for  authority 
which  had  prevailed  when  Aristotle  ruled  alone.  The  rise 
of  the  Florentine  sect  of  Platonists,  a sect  to  which  belonged 
some  of  the  finest  minds  of  the  fifteenth  century,  was  not 
an  unimportant  event.  The  mere  substitution  of  the 
Academic  for  the  Peripatetic  philosophy  would  indeed  have 
done  little*  good.  P * anything  was  better  than  the  old 


220 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


habit  of  unreasoning  servility.  It  was  something  to  have  a 
choice  of  tyrants.  “ A spark  of  freedom,”  as  Gibbon  has 
justly  remarked,  “was  produced  by  this  collision  of  adverse 
servitude.” 

Other  causes  might  be  mentioned.  But  it  is  chiefly  to 
the  great  reformation  of  religion  that  we  owe  the  great  re- 
formation of  philosophy.  The  alliance  between  the  Schools 
and  the  Vatican  had  for  ages  been  so  close  that  those  who 
threw  off  the  dominion  of  the  Vatican  could  not  continue 
to  recognize  the  authority  of  the  Schools.  Most  of  tho 
chiefs  of  the  schism  treated  the  Peripatetic  philosophy  with 
contempt,  and  spoke  of  Aristotle  as  if  Aristotle  had  been 
answerable  for  all  the  dogmas  of  Thomas  Aquinas.  “ Nullo 
apud  Lutheranos  philosophiam  esse  in  pretio,”  was  a re- 
proach which  the  defenders  of  the  Church  of  Rome  loudly 
repeated,  and  which  many  of  the  Protestant  leaders  consid- 
ered as  a compliment.  Scarcely  any  text  was  more  fre- 
quently cited  by  the  reformers  than  that  in  which  St.  Paul 
cautions  the  Collossians  not  to  let  any  man  spoil  them  by 
philosophy.  Luther,  almost  at  the  onset  of  his  career,  went 
so  far  as  to  declare  that  no  man  could  be  at  once  a proficient 
in  the  school  of  Aristotle  and  In  that  of  Christ.  Zwingle, 
Bucer,  Peter  Martyr,  Calvin,  held  similar  language.  In 
some  of  the  Scotch  universities,  the  Aristotlean  system  was 
discarded  for  that  of  Ramus.  Thus,  before  the  birth  of 
Bacon,  the  empire  of  the  scholastic  philosophy  had  been 
shaken  to  its  foundations.  There  was  in  the  intellectual 
world  an  anarchy  resembling  that  which  in  the  political 
world  often  follows  the  overthrow  of  an  old  and  deeply- 
rooted  government.  Antiquity,  prescription,  the  sound  qf 
great  names,  had  ceased  to  awe  mankind.  The  dynasty 
which  had  reigned  for  ages  was  at  an  end  : and  the  vacant 
throne  was  left  to  be  struggled  for  by  pretenders. 

The  first  effect  of  this  great  revolution,  was,  as  Bacon 
most  justly  observed,*  to  give  for  a time  an  undue  impor- 
tance to  the  mere  'graces  ot  style.  The  new  breed  of 
scholars,  the  Aschams  and  Buchanans,  nourished  with  the 
finest  compositions  of  the  Augustan  age,  regarded  with 
loathing  the  dry,  crabbed,  and  barbarous  diction  of  respon- 
dents and  opponents.  They  were  far  less  studious  about 
the  matter  of  their  writing  than  about  the  manner.  They 
succeeded  in  reforming  Latin ity ; but  they  never  even  as- 
pired to  effect  a reform  in  philosophy. 

* Augment™,  Lib*  h 


LOJ$p  BACON. 


221 


At  this  time  Bacon  appeared.  It  is  altogether  incorrect 
to  say,  as  lias  often  been  said,  that  he  was  the  first  man  who 
rose  up  against  the  Aristotlean  philosophy  when  in  the 
height  of  its  power.  The  authority  of  that  philosophy  had, 
as  we  have  shown,  received  a fatal  blow  long  before  he  was 
born.  Several  speculators,  among  whom  Ramus  is  the 
best  known,  had  recently  attempted  to  form  new  sects. 
Bacon’s  own  expressions  about  the  state  of  public  opinion 
in  the  time  of  Luther  ai  3 clear  and  strong : u Accedebat,” 
says  he,  “ odium  et  contemptus,  illis  ipsis  temporibus  ortus 
erga  Scholasticos.”  And  again,  “ Scholasticorum  doctrina 
despectui  prorsus  haberi  coepit  tanquam  aspera  et  barbara.”* 
The  part  which  Bacon  played  in  this  great  change  was  the 
part,  not  of  Robespierre,  but  of  Bonaparte.  The  ancient 
order  of  things  had  been  subverted.  Some  bigots  still  cher- 
ished wdth  devoted  loyalty  the  remembrance  of  the  fallen 
monarchy,  and  exerted  themselves  to  effect  a restoration. 
But  the  majority  had  no  such  feeling.  Freed,  yet  not 
knowing  how  to  use  their  freedom,  they  pursued  no  deter- 
minate course,  and  had  found  no  leader  capable  of  conduct- 
ing them. 

That  leader  at  length  arose.  The  philosophy  which  he 
taught  was  essentially  new.  It  differed  from  that  of  the 
celebrated  ancient  teachers,  not  merely  in  method,  but  also 
in  object.  Its  object  was  the  good  of  mankind,  in  the  sense 
in  which  the  mass  of  mankind  always  have  understood  and 
always  will  understand  the  word  good.  “Meditor,”  said 
Bacon,  “ instaurationem  philosopiae  ejusmodi  quse  nihil  in- 
auis  aut  abstracti  habeat,  quaeque  vitae  humanae  condition's 
in  melius  provehat.”  t 

The  difference  between  the  philosophy  of  Bacon  and 
that  of  his  predecessors  cannot,  we  think,  be  better  illus- 
t rated  than  by  comparing  his  views  on  some  important  sub- 
jects with  those  of  Plato.  We  select  Plato,  because  we 
conceive  that  he  did  more  than  any  other  person  towards 
giving  to  the  minds  of  speculative  men  that  bent  which  they 
retained  tili  they  received  from  Bacon  a new  impulse  in  a 
diametrically  opposite  direction. 

It  is  curious  to  observe  how  differently  these  great  men 
estimated  the  value  of  every  kind  of  knowledge.  Take 
Arithmetic  for  example.  Plato,  after  speaking  slightly  of 
the  convenience  of  being  able  to  reckon  and  compute  in  the 

* Both  these  passages  are  in  the  first  hook  ol  De 


222  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

ordinary  transactions  of  life,  passes  to  what  he  considers  as 
a far  more  important  advantage.  The  study  of  the  proper- 
t'  es  of  numbers,  he  tells  us,  habituates  the  mind  to  the  con- 
templation of  pure  truth,  and  raises  us  above  the  material 
universe.  He  would  have  his  disciples  apply  themselves  to 
this  study,  not  that  they  maybe  able  to  buy  or  sell,  not  that 
they  may  qualify  themselves  to  be  shop-keepers  or  travelling 
merchants,  but  that  they  may  learn  to  withdraw  their 
minds  from  the  ever-shifting  spectacle  of  this  visible  and 
tangible  world,  and  to  fix  them  on  the  immutable  essences 
of  things.* 

Bacon,  on  the  other  hand,  valued  this  branch  of  knowl- 
edge, only  on  account  of  its  uses  with  reference  to  that  vis- 
ible and  tangible  world  which  Plato  so  much  despised.  He 
speaks  with  scorn  of  the  mystical  arithmetic  of  the  later 
Platonists,  and  laments  the  propensity  of  mankind  to  em- 
ploy, on  mere  matters  of  curiosity,  powers  the  whole  exer- 
tion of  which  is  required  for  purposes  of  solid  advantage. 
He  advises  arithmeticians  to  leave  these  trifles,  and  to  em- 
ploy themselves  in  framing  convenient  expressions,  which 
may  be  of  use  in  physical  researches.! 

The  same  reasons  which  led  Plato  to  recommend  the 
study  of  arithmetic  led  him  to  recommend  also  the  study  of 
mathematics.  The  vulgar  crowd  of  geometricians,  he  says, 
will  not  understand  him.  They  have  practice  always  in 
view.  They  do  not  know  that  the  real  use  of  the  science 
is  to  lead  men  to  the  knowledge  of  abstract,  essential,  eternal 
truth.!  Indeed,  if  we  are  to  believe  Plutarch,  Plato  carried 
this  feeling  so  far  that  he  considered  geometry  as  degraded 
by  being  applied  to  any  purpose  of  vulgar  utility.  Archy- 
tas,  it  seems,  had  framed  machines  of  extraordinary  power 
on  mathematical  principles. § Plato  remonstrated  with  his 
friend,  and  declared  that  this  was  to  degrade  a noble  intel- 
lectual exercise  into  a low  craft,  fit  only  for  carpenters  and 
wheelwrights.  The  office  of  geometry,  he  said,  was  to  dis- 
cipline the  mind,  not  to  minister  to  the  base  wants  of  the 
body.  His  interference  was  successful ; and  from  that  time, 
according  to  Plutarch,  the  science  of  mechanics  was  con- 
sidered as  unworthy  of  the  attention  of  a philosopher. 

Archimedes  in  a later  age  imitated  and  surpassed  Archy- 
tas.  But  even  Archimedes  was  not  free  from  the  prevailing 

♦Plato’s  Republic , Book  7-  t De  Augmentis,  Lib.  3.  Cap.  6. 

X Plato’s  Republic , Book  7. 

§ Plutarch,  Sympos.  viii,  and  Life  of  Marcellus.  The  machines  of  Archy 
tae  are  also  mentioned  by  Aulua  Gellius  and  Diogenes  Laertius, 


LORI)  BACON. 


m 


notion  that  geometry  was  degraded  by  being  employed  to 
produce  anything  useful.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  he 
was  induced  to  stoop  from  speculation  to  practice.  He  was 
half  ashamed  of  those  inventions  which  were  the  wonder  of 
hostile  nations,  and  always  spoke  of  them  slightingly  as 
mere  amusements,  as  trifles  in  which  a mathematician  might 
be  suffered  to  relax  his  mind  after  intense  application  to 
the  higher  parts  of  his  science. 

The  opinion  of  Bacon  on  this  subject  was  diametrically 
opposed  to  that  of  the  ancient  philosophers.  He  valued 
geometry  chiefly,  if  not  solely,  on  account  of  those  uses, 
which  to  Plato  appeared  so  base.  And  it  is  remarkable 
that  the  longer  Bacon  lived  the  stronger  this  feeling  be- 
came. When  in  1605  he  wrote  the  two  books  on  the  Ad- 
vancement  of  Learning,  he  dwelt  on  the  advantages  which 
mankind  derived  from  mixed  mathematics ; but  he  at  the 
same  time  admitted  that  the  beneficial  effect  produced  by 
mathematical  study  on  the  intellect,  though  a collateral  ad- 
vantage, was  “ no  less  worthy  than  that  which  was  princi- 
pal and  intended.”  But  it  is  evident  that  his  views  un- 
derwent a change.  When,  near  twenty  years  later,  he 
published  the  De  Aug  mentis,  which  is  the  Treatise  on 
the  Advancement  of  Learning,  greatly  expanded  and  care- 
fully corrected,  he  made  important  alterations  in  the  part 
which  related  to  mathematics.  He  condemned  with  sever- 
ity the  high  pretensions  of  the  mathematicians,  “ delicias 
et  fastum  mathematicorum.”  Assuming  the  well-being  of 
the  human  race  to  be  the  end  of  knowledge,*  he  pro- 
nounced that  mathematical  science  could  claim  no  higher 
rank  than  that  of  an  appendage  or  an  auxiliary  to  other 
sciences.  Mathematical  science,  he  says,  is  the  hand- 
maid of  natural  philosophy;  she  ought  to  demean  herself 
as  such  ; and  he  declares  that  he  cannot  conceive  by  what 
ill  chance  it  has  happened  that  she  presumes  to  claim 
precedence  over  her  mistress.  He  predicts — a prediction 
which  would  have  made  Plato  shudder — that  as  more  and 
more  discoveries  are  made  in  physics,  there  will  be  more 
and  more  branches  of  mixed  mathematics.  Of  that  collat- 
eral advantage  the  value  of  which,  twenty  years  before,  he 
rated  so  highly,  he  says  not  one  word.  This  omission  can- 
not have  been  the  effect  of  mere  inadvertence.  His  own 
treatise  was  before  him.  From  that  treatise  he  deliberately 
expunged  whatever  was  favorable  to  the  study  of  pure 

* Usui  et  oommodle  homimim  eonBulunua. 


224  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

mathematics,  and  inserted  several  keen  reflections  on  the 
ardent  votaries  of  that  study.  This  fact,  in  our  opinion, 
admits  of  only  one  explanation.  Bacon’s  love  of  those  pur- 
suits which  directly  tend  to  improve  the  condition  of  mankind, 
and  his  jealousy  of  all  pursuits  merely  curious,  had  grown 
upon  him,  and  had,  it  may  be,  become  immoderate.  He 
was  afraid  of  using  any  expression  which  might  have  the 
effect  of  inducing  any  man  of  talents  to  employ  in  sjiecula- 
lions,  useful  only  to  the  mind  of  the  speculator,  ft  single 
hour  which  might  be  employed  in  extending  the  empire  of 
man  over  matter.*  If  Bacon  erred  here,  we  must  acknowl- 
edge that  we  greatly  prefer  his  error  to  the  opposite  error 
of  Plato-  We  have  no  patience  with  a philosophy  which, 
like  those  Roman  matrons  who  swallowed  abortives  in  order 
to  preserve  their  shapes,  take  pains  to  be  barren  for  fear  of 
being  homely. 

Let  us  pass  to  astronomy.  This  was  one  of  the  sciences 
which  Plato  exhorted  his  disciples  to  learn,  but  for  reasons 
far  removed  from  common  habits  of  thinking.  “ Shall  we 
set  down  astronomy,”  says  Socrates,  “ among  the  subjects 
of  study ? ” f “I  think  so,”  answered  his  young  friend 
Glaucon : “ to  know  something  about  the  seasons,  the 
months,  and  the  years  is  of  use  for  military  purposes,  as 
well  as  for  agriculture  and  navigation.”  “ It  amuses  me,” 
says  Socrates,  “ to  see  how  afraid  you  are,  lest  the  common 
herd  of  people  should  accuse  you  of  recommending  useless 
studies.  He  then  proceeds,  in  that  pure  and  magnificent 
diction  which,  as  Cicero  said,  Jupiter  would  use  if  Jupiter 
spoke  Greek,  to  explain  that  the  use  of  astronomy  is  not  to 
add  to  the  vulgar  comforts  of  life,  but  to  assist  in  raising 
the  mind  to  the  contemplation  of  things  which  are  to  be 
perceived  by  the  pure  intellect  alone.  The  knowledge  of 
the  actual  motions  of  the  heavenly  bodies  Socrates  con- 
siders as  of  little  value.  The  appearances  which  make  the  sky 
beautiful  at  night  are,  he  tells  us,  like  the  figures  which  a 
geometrician  draws  on  the  sand,  mere  examples,  mere  helps 
to  feeble  minds.  We  must  get  beyond  them  ; we  must 
neglect  them  ; we  must  attain  to  an  astronomy  which  is  as 
independent  of  the  actual  stars  as  geometrical  truth  is  inde- 
pendent of  the  lines  of  an  ill-drawn  diagram.  This  is,  we 
imagine,  very  nearly,  if  not  exactly,  the  astronomy  which 

* Compare  the  passage  relating  to  mathematics  in  the  Second  Book  of  the 
Advancement  of  Learning,  with  the  De  Augmentiet  Lib.  3,  Cap.  6. 

\ Plato’s  liepubhc,  Book  7. 


LORD  BACOtf. 


225 


Bacon  compared  to  the  ox  of  Prometheus,*  a sleek,  well- 
shaped  hide,  stuffed  with  rubbish,  goodly  to  look  at,  but 
containing  nothing  to  eat.  He  complained  that  astronomy 
had,  to  its  great  injury,  been  separated  from  natural  philos- 
ophy, of  which  it  was  one  of  the  noblest  provinces,  and  an- 
nexed to  the  domain  of  mathematics.  The  world  stood  in 
need,  he  said,  of  a very  different  astronomy,  of  a living  as- 
tronomy,f of  an  astronomy  which  should  set  forth  the  na- 
ture, the  motion,  and  the  influences  of  the  heavenly  bodies, 
as  they  really  are.t 

On  the  greatest  and  most  useful  of  all  human  inventions; 
the  invention  of  alphabetical  writing,  Plato  did  not  look  with 
much  complacency.  He  seems  to  have  thought  that  the  use 
of  letters  had  operated  on  the  human  mind  as  the  use  of  the 
go-cart  in  learning  to  walk,  or  of  corks  in  learning  to  swim, 
is  said  to  operate  on  the  human  body.  It  was  a support 
which,  in  his  opinion,  soon  became  indispensable  to  those 
who  used  it,  which  made  vigorous  exertion  first  unnecessary 
and  then  impossible.  The  powers  of  the  intellect  would,  he 
conceived,  have  been  more  fully  developed  without  this  de- 
lusive aid.  Men  would  have  been  compelled  to  exercise  the 
understanding  and  the  memory,  and,  by  deep  and  assiduous 
meditation,  to  make  truth  thoroughly  their  own.  Now,  on 
the  contrary,  much  knowledge  is  traced  on  paper,  but  little 
is  engraved  in  the  soul.  A man  is  certain  that  he  can  find 
information  at  a moment’s  notice  when  he  wants  it.  He 
therefore  suffers  it  to  fade  from  his  mind.  Such  a man 
cannot  in  strictness  be  said  to  know  anything.  He  has  the 
show  without  the  reality  of  wisdom.  These  opinions  Plato 
has  put  into  the  mouth  of  an  ancient  king  of  Egypt. § But 
it  is  evident  from  the  context  that  they  were  his  own  ; and 
so  they  were  understood  to  be  by  Quinctilian.  ||  Indeed 
they  are  in  perfect  accordance  with  the  whole  Platonic 
system. 

Bacon’s  views,  as  may  easily  be  supposed,  were  wddely 
different. IT  The  powers  of  the  memory,  he  observed,  with- 
out the  help  of  writing,  can  do  little  towards  the  advance- 
ment of  any  useful  science.  He  acknowledges  that  the 
memory  may  be  disciplined  to  such  a point  as  to  be  able  to 
perform  very  extraordinary  feats.  But  on  such  feats  he 

* De  Angmentu , lib.  3.  Cap.  4, 
t Astronoinia  viva. 

substantiam  et  motiun  ot  iiiiluxuio  ecelestium,  prout  re  vera  sunt 
preponat.”  Compare  this  language  with  Plato’s,  “ ~d  6’  iv  rw  ovpavw  «dtfoiaev. ,9 
| Plato’s  Phwdrus.  ||  Quiucttfiauj  XL  If  Dt  AuginmUs,  Lib.  5,  Cs»d, 

Vol.  It,— 15 


226  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings.  . 

sets  little  value.  The  habits  of  his  mind,  he  tells  us,  are 
such  that  he  is  not  disposed  to  rate  highly  any  accomplish- 
ment, however  rare,  which  is  of  no  practical  use  to  mankind. 
As  to  these  prodigious  achievements  of  the  memory,  he  ranks 
them  with  the  exhibitions  of  rope-dancers  and  tumblers. 
“ The  two  performances,”  he  says,  “ are  of  much  the  same 
sort.  The  one  is  an  abuse  of  the  powers  of  the  body  ; the 
other  is  an  abuse  of  the  powers  of  the  mind.  Both  may  per- 
haps excite  our  wonder ; but  neither  is  entitled  to  our  re- 
spect.” 

To  Plato,  the  science  of  medicine  appeared  to  be  of  very 
disputable  advantage.*  He  did  not  indeed  object  to  quick 
cures  for  acute  disorders,  or  for  injuries  produced  by  acci- 
dents. But  -the  art  which  resists  the  slow  sap  of  a chronic 
disease,  which  repairs  frames  enervated  by  lust,  swollen  by 
gluttony,  or  inflamed  by  wine,  which  encourages  sensuality 
by  mitigating  the  natural  punishment  of  the  sensualist,  and 
prolongs  existence  when  the  intellect  has  ceased  to  retain  its 
entire  energy,  had  no  share  of  his  esteem.  A life  protracted 
by  medical  skill  he  pronounced  to  be  a long  death.  The  ex- 
istence of  the  art  of  medicine  ought,  he  said,  to  be  tolerated, 
so  far  as  that  art  may  serve  to  cure  the  occasional  distempers 
of  men  whose  constitutions  are  good.  As  to  those  who  have 
bad  constitutions,  let  them  die ; and  the  sooner  the  better. 
Such  men  are  unfit  for  war,  for  magistracy,  for  the  manage- 
ment of  their  domestic  affairs,  for  severe  study  and  specula- 
tion. If  they  engage  in  any  vigorous  mental  exercise,  they  are 
troubled  with  giddiness  and  fulness  of  the  head,  all  which  they 
lay  to  the  account  of  philosophy.  The  best  thing  that  can  hap- 
pen to  such  wretches  is  to  have  done  with  life  at  once.  He 
quotes  mythical  authority  in  support  of  this  doctrine ; and 
reminds  his  disciples  that  the  practice  of  the  sons  of  HSscu- 
lapius,  as  described  by  Homer,  extended  only  to  the  cure  of 
external  injuries. 

Far  different  was  the  philosophy  of  Bacon.  Of  all  the 
sciences,  that  which  he  seems  to  have  regarded  with  the 
greatest  interest  was  the  science  which,  in  Plato’s  opinion, 
would  not  be  tolerated  in  a well  regulated  community.  To 
make  men  perfect  was  no  part  of  Bacon’s  plan.  His  hum- 
ble aim  was  to  make  imperfect  men  comfortable.  The  bene- 
ficence of  his  philosophy  resembled  the  beneficence  of  the 
common  Father,  whose  sun  rises  on  the  evil  and  the  good, 
whose  rain  descends  for  the  just  and  the  unjust.  In  Plato’s 
* Plato’s  fiepublic,  Book  3, 


LORD  RACOX. 


227, 

opinion  man  was  made  for  philosophy ; in  Bacon’s  opinion 
philosophy  was  made  for  man ; it  was  a means  to  an  end  ; 
and  that  end  was  to  increase  the  pleasures  and  to  mitigate 
the  pains  of  millions  who  are  not  and  cannot  be  philosophers. 
That  a valetudinarian  who  took  great  pleasure  in  being 
wheeled  along  his  terrace,  who  relished  his  boiled  chicken 
and  his  weak  wine  and  water,  and  who  enjoyed  a hearty 
laugh  over  the  Queen  of  Navarre’s  tales,  should  be  treated 
as  a caput  lupinum  because  he  could  not  'ead  the  Timaeus 
without  a headache,  was  a notion  which  the  humane  spirit 
of  the  English  schools  of  wisdom  altogether  rejected.  Ba- 
con would  not  have  thought  it  beneath  the  dignity  of  a 
philosopher  to  contrive  an  improved  garden  chair  for  such 
a valetudinarian,  to  devise  some  way  of  rendering  his  medi- 
cines more  palatable,  to  invent  repasts  wl-ich  he  might  enjoy, 
and  pillows  on  which  he  might  sleep  soundly ; and  this 
though  there  might  not  be  the  smallest  hope  that  the  mind  of 
the  poor  invalid  would  ever  rise  to  the  contemplation  of  the 
ideal  beautiful  and  the  ideal  good.  As  Plato  had  cited  the 
religious  legends  of  Greece  to  justify  his  contempt  for  the 
more  recondite  parts  of  the  art  of  healing,  Bacon  vindicated 
the  dignity  of  that  art  by  appealing  to  the  example  of  Christ, 
and  reminded  men  that  the  great  Physician  of  the  soul  did 
not  disdain  to  be  also  the  physician  of  the  body.* 

When  we  pass  from  the  science  of  medicine  to  that  of 
legislation,  we  find  the  same  difference  between  the  systems 
of  these  two  great  men.  Plato,  at  the  commencement  of 
the  Dialogue  on  laws,  lays  it  down  as  a fundamental  princi- 
ple that  the  end  of  legislation  is  to  make  men  virtuous.  It  is 
unnecessary  to  point  out  the  extravagant  conclusions  to  which 
such  a proposition  leads.  Bacon  well  knew  to  how  great  an 
extent  the  happiness  of  every  society  must  dej^encl  on  the 
virtue  of  its  members ; and  he  also  knew  what  legislators 
can  and  what  they  cannot  do  for  the  purpose  of  promoting 
virtue.  The  view  which  he  has  given  of  the  >jend  of  legisla- 
tion,  and  of  the  principal  means  for  the  attainment  of  that  end, 
has  always  seemed  to  us  eminently  happy,  even  among  the 
many  happy  passages  of  the  same  kind  with  which  his  works 
abound.  “ Finis  et  scopus  quern  leges  intuen  atque  ad  quem 
jussiones  et  sanctiones  suas  dirigre  debent,  non  alius  est 
quam  ut  civesfeliciter  degant.  Id  fiet  si  pietate  et  religione 
recte  instituti,  moribus  lionesti,  armis  adversus  hostes  exter- 
nos  tuti,  legum  auxilio  adversus  seditiones  et  privatas  inju- 

* D&  Auymentis , Lib.  4.  Gap.  2. 


228 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


rias  iLuniti,  imperio  et  magistratibus  obsequentes,  copiis  et 
opibus  locupletes  et  florentes  fuerint.”*  The  end  is  the  well- 
being of  the  people.  The  means  are  the  imparting  of  moral 
and  religious  education  ; the  providing  of  everything  nec- 
essary for  defence  against  foreign  enemies  ; the  maintaining 
of  internal  order;  the  establishing  of  a judicial,  financial, 
and  commercial  system,  under  which  wealth  may  be  rapidly 
accumulated  and  securely  enjoyed. 

Even  with  respect  to  the  form  in  which  laws  ought  to  be 
drawn,  there  is  a remarkable  difference  of  opinion  between 
the  Greek  and  the  Englishman.  Plato  thought  a preamble 
essential ; Bacon  thought  h mischievous.  Each  was  con- 
sistent with  himself.  Plato,  considering  the  moral  improve- 
ment of  the  people  as  the  end  of  legislation,  justly  inferred 
that  a law  which  commanded  and  threatened,  but  which 
neither  convinced  the  reason,  nor  touched  the  heart,  must 
be  a most  imperfect  law.  He  was  not  content  with  deter- 
ring from  theft  a man  who  still  continued  to  be  a thief  at 
heart,  with  restraining  a son  who  hated  bis  mother  from 
beating  his  mother.  The  only  obedience  on  which  he  set 
much  value  was  the  obedience  which  an  enlightened  under- 
standing yields  to  reason,  and  which  a virtuous  disposition 
yields  to  precepts  of  virtue.  He  really  seems  to  have  be- 
lieved that,  by  prefixing  to  every  law  an  eloquent  and 
pathetic  exhortation,  he  should,  to  a great  extent,  render 
penal  enactments  superfluous.  Bacon  entertained  no  such 
romantic  hopes ; and  he  well  knew  the  practical  inconve- 
niences of  the  course  which  Plato  recommended.  “Neque 
nobis,”  says  he,  “ prologi  legum  qui  inepti  olimhabiti  sunt,  et 
leges  introducunt  disputantes  non  jubentes,utique  plaeerent, 
si  priscos  mores  ferre  possemus.  * # * * Quantum 

fieri  potest  prologi  evitentur,  et  lex  incipiat  a jussione.  ” j* 

Each  of  the  great  men  whom  we  have  compared  intended 
to  illustrate  his  system  by  a philosophical  romance  ; and  each 
left  his  romance  imperfect.  Had  Plato  lived  to  finish  the 
Gritias,  a comparison  between  that  noble  fiction  and  the  new 
Atlantis  would  probably  have  furnished  us  with  still  more 
striking  instances  than  any  which  we  have  given.  It  is  amus- 
ing to  think  with  what  horror  he  would  have  seen  such  an  insti- 
tution as  Solomon’s  House  rising  in  his  republic : with  what 
vehemence  he  would  have  ordered  the  brewhouses,  the  per- 
fume houses,  and  the  dispensatories  to  be  pulled  down;  and 


• De  Auymentis , Lib.  8 Cap.  3.  Aph.  5 


f Ibid.,  Apb.  69. 


i 


LORD  BACOK. 


2 22 

with  what  inexorable  rigor  he  would  have  driven  beyond  the 
frontier  all  the  Fellows  of  the  College,  Merchants  of  Light 
and  Depredators,  Lamps  and  Pioneers. 

To  sum  up  the  whole,  we  should  say  that  the  aim  of  the 
Platonic  philosophy  was  to  exalt  man  into  a god.  The  aim 
of  the  Baconian  philosophy  was  to  provide  man  with  what 
he  requires  while  he  continues  to  be  man.  The  aim  of  the 
Platonic  philosophy  was  to  raise  us  far  above  vulgar  wants. 
The  aim  of  the  Baconian  philosophy  was  to  supply  our 
vulgar  wants.  The  former  aim  was  noble ; but  the  latter 
was  attainable.  Plato  drew  a good  bow  ; but,  like  Acestes 
in  Virgil,  he  aimed  at  the  stars  ; and  therefore,  though  there 
was  no  want  of  strength  or  skill,  the  shot  was  thrown  away. 
His  arrow  was  indeed  followed  by  a track  of  dazzling  radi- 
ance, but  it-  struck  nothing. 

“ Volans  liquidis  in  nnbibus  arsit  arundo 
Signavitque  viam  flammis,  tenuisque  recessit 
Consumpta  in  ventas.” 

Bacon  fixed  his  eye  on  a mark  which  was  placed  on  the 
earth,  and  within  boAV  shot,  and  hit  it  in  the  white.  The 
philosophy  of  Plato  began  in  words  and  ended  in  words, 
noble  words  indeed,  words  such  as  were  to  be  expected 
from  the  finest  of  human  intellects  exercising  boundlesr 
dominion  over  the  finest  of  human  languages.  The  philosc^ 
phy  of  Bacon  began  in  observations  and  ended  in  arts. 

The  boast  of  the  ancient  philosophers  was  that  their  doc- 
trine formed  the  minds  of  men  to  a high  degree  of  wisdom  and 
virtue.  This  was  indeed  the  only  practical  good  which  the 
most  celebrated  of  those  teachers  even  pretended  to  effect ; 
and  undoubtedly,  if  they  had  effected  this,  they  would 
have  deserved  far  higher  praise  than  if  they  had  discov- 
ered the  most  salutary  medicines  or  constructed  the  most 
powerful  machines.  But  the  truth  is  that,  in  those  very 
matters  in  which  alone  they  professed  to  do  any  good  to 
mankind,  in  those  very  matters  for  the  sake  of  which  they 
neglected  all  the  vulgar  interests  of  mankind,  they  did  noth- 
ing, or  worse  than  nothing.  They  promised  what  was  im- 
practicable ; they  despised  what  was  practicable  ; they  filled 
the  world  with  long  words  and  long  beards ; and  they  left 
it  as  wicked  and  as  ignorant  as  they  found  it. 

An  acre  in  Middlesex  is  better  than  a principality  in 
Utopia.  The  smallest  actual  good  is  better  than  the  most 
magnificent  promises  ,of  impossibilities.  The  wise  man  of 
the  Stoics  would,  no  doubt,  be  a grander  object  than  a steam- 


230 


macatjlay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


engine.  But  there  are  steam-engines.  And  the  wise  man 
of  the  Stoics  is  yet  to  be  born.  A philosophy  which  should 
enable  a man  to  feel  perfectly  happy  while  in  agonies  of  pain 
would  be  better  than  a philosophy  which  assuages  pain 
But  we  know  that  there  are  remedies  which  will  assuage 
pain ; and  we  know  that  the  ancient  sages  like  the  tooth- 
ache just  as  little  as  their  neighbors.  A philosophy  which 
should  extinguish  cupidity  would  be  better  than  a philoso- 
phy which  should  devise  laws  for  the  security  of  property. 
But  it  is  possible  to  make  laws  which  shall,  to  a very  great 
extent,  secure  property.  And  we  do  not  understand  how 
any  motives  which  the  ancient  philosopher  furnished  could 
extinguish  cupidity.  W e know  indeed  that  the  philosophers 
were  no  better  than  other  men.  From  the  testimony  of 
friends  as  well  as  of  foes,  from  the  confessions  of  Epictetus 
and  Seneca,  as  well  as  from  the  sneers  of  Lucian  and  the 
fierce  invectives  of  Juvenal,  it  is  plain  that  these  teachers  of 
virtue  had  all  the  vices  of  their  neighbors,  with  the  additional 
vice  of  hypocrisy.  Some  people  may  think  the  object  of 
the  Baconian  philosophy  a low  object,  but  they  cannot  deny 
that,  high  or  low,  it  has  been  attained.  They  cannot  deny 
that  every  year  makes  an  addition  to  what  Bacon  called 
“ fruit.”  They  cannot  deny  that  mankind  have  made,  and 
are  making,  great  and  constant  progress  in  the  road  which 
he  pointed  out  to  them.  Was  there  any  such  progressive 
movement  among  the  ancient  philosophers  ? After  they  had 
been  declaiming  eight  hundred  years,  had  they  made  the 
world  better  than  when  they  began  ? Our  belief  is  that, 
among  the  philosophers  themselves,  instead  of  a progressive 
improvement  there  was  a progressive  degeneracy.  An  ab- 
ject superstition  which  Democritus  or  Anaxagoras  would 
have  rejected  with  scorn  added  the  last  disgrace  to  the  long 
dotage  of  the  Stoic  and  Platonic  schools.  Those  unsuccess- 
ful attempts  to  articulate  which  are  so  delightful  and  inter- 
esting in  a child  shock  and  disgust  us  in  an  aged  paralytic ; 
and  in  the  same  way,  those  wild  mythological  fictions  which 
charm  us  when  we  hear  them  lisped  by  Greek  poetry  in  its 
infancy,  excite  a mixed  sensation  of  pity  and  loathing  when 
mumbled  by  Greek  philosophy  in  its  old  age.  W e know 
that  guns,  cutlery,  spy-glasses,  clocks,  are  better  in  our  time 
than  they  were  in  the  time  of  our  fathers,  and  were  better 
in  the  time  of  our  fathers  than  they  were  in  the  time  of  our 
grandfathers.  We  might,  therefore;  be  inclined  to  think 
that,  when  a philosophy  which  boasted  that  its  object  was 


LOUD  BACON. 


231 


the  elevation  and  purification  of  the  mind,  and  which  for 
this  object  neglected  the  sordid  office  of  ministering  to  the 
comforts  of  the  body,  had  flourished  in  the  highest  honor 
during  many  hundreds  of  years,  a vast  moral  amelioration 
must  have  taken  place.  Was  it  so  ? Look  at  the  schools 
of  this  wisdom  four  centuries  before  the  Christian  era  and 
four  centuries  after  that  era.  Compare  the  men  whom  those 
schools  formed  at  those  two  periods.  Compare  Plato  and 
Libanius.  Compare  Pericles  and  Julian.  This  philosophy 
confessed,  nay  blasted,  that  for  every  end  but  one  it  was 
useless.  Had  it  attained  that  one  end  ? 

Suppose  that  Justinian,  when  he  closed  the  schools  of 
Athens,  had  called  on  the  last  few  sages  who  still  haunted 
the  Portico,  and  lingered  round  the  ancient  plane-trees, 
to  show  their  title  to  public  veneration : suppose  that  he 
had  said ; “ A thousand  years  have  elapsed  since,  in  this 
famous  city,  Socrates  posed  Protagoras  and  Hippias ; dur- 
ing those  thousand  years  a large  proportion  of  the  ablest 
men  of  every  generation  has  been  employed  in  constant 
efforts  to  bring  to  perfection  the  philosophy  which  you 
teach;  that  philosophy  has  been  munificently  patronized  by 
the  powerful ; its  professors  have  been  held  in  the  highest 
esteem  by  the  public ; it  has  drawn  to  itself  almost  all  the 
sap  and  vigor  of  the  human  intellect : and  what  has  it 
effected  ? What  profitable  truth  has  it  taught  us  which  we 
should  not  equally  have  known  without  it  ? What  has  it 
enabled  us  to  do  which  we  should  not  have  been  equally 
able  to  do  without  it  ? ” Such  questions,  we  suspect,  would 
have  puzzled  Simplicius  and  Isidore.  Ask  a follower  of 
Bacon  what  the  new  philosophy,  as  it  was  called  in  the  time 
of  Charles  the  Second,  has  effected  for  mankind,  and  his 
answer  is  ready ; “ It  has  lengthened  life  ; it  has  mitigated 
pain  ; it  has  extinguished  diseases ; it  has  increased  the  fer 
tility  of  the  soil ; it  has  given  new  securities  to  the  mariner : 
it  has  furnished  new  arms  to  the  warrior ; it  has  spanned 
great  rivers  and  estuaries  with  bridges  of  form  unknown  to 
our  fathers  ; it  has  guided  the  thunderbolt  innocuously  from 
heaven  to  earth  : it  has  lighted  up  the  night  with  the  splen- 
dor of  the  day;  it  has  extended  the  range  of  the  human 
vision ; it  has  multiplied  the  power  of  the  human  muscles ; 
it  has  accelerated  motion  ; it  has  annihilated  distance ; it 
has  facilitated  intercourse,  correspondence,  all  friendly 
offices,  all  despatch  of  business ; it  has  enabled  man  to  de« 
ecend  to  the  depths  of  the  sea,  to  soar  into  the  air,  to  pene* 


232 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


trate  securely  into  the  noxious  recesses  of  the  earth,  to 
traverse  the  land  in  cars  which  whirl  along  without  horses, 
and  the  ocean  in  ships  which  run  ten  knots  an  hour  against 
the  wind.  These  are  but  a part  of  its  fruits,  and  of  its  first 
fruits.  F or  it  is  a philosophy  which  never  rests,  which  has 
never  attained,  which  is  never  perfect.  Its  law  is  progress. 
A point  which  yesterday  was  invisible  is  its  goal  to-day, 
and  will  be  its  starting-post  to-morrow.” 

Great  and  various  as  the  powers  of  Bacon  were,  he  owes 
his  wide  and  durable  fame  chiefly  to  this,  that  all  those 
powers  received  their  direction  from  common  sense.  His 
love  of  the  vulgar  useful,  his  strong  sympathy  with  the  popu- 
lar notions  of  good  and  evil,  and  the  openness  with  which 
he  avowed  that  sympathy,  are  the  secret  of  his  influence. 
There  was  in  his  system  no  cant,  no  illusion.  He  had  no 
anointing  for  broken  bones,  no  fine  theories  de  Jlnibus , no 
arguments  to  persuade  men  out  of  their  senses.  He  knew 
that  men,  and  philosophers  as  well  as  other  men,  do  actual- 
ly love  life,  health,  comfort,  honor,  security,  the  society  of 
friends,  and  do  actually  dislike  death,  sickness,  pain,  poverty, 
disgrace,  danger,  separation  from  those  to  whom  they  are 
attached.  He  knew  that  religion,  though  it  often  regulates 
and  moderates  these  feelings,  seldom  eradicates  them ; nor 
did  he  think  it  desirable  for  mankind  that  they  should  be 
eradicated.  The  plan  of  eradicating  them  by  conceits  like 
those  of  Seneca,  or  syllogisms  like  those  of  Chrysippus,  was 
too  preposterous  to  be  for  a moment  entertained  by  a mind 
like  his.  He  did  not  understand  what  wisdom  there  could 
be  in  changing  names  where  it  was  impossible  to  change 
things;  in  denying  that  blindness,  hunger,  the  gout,  the 
rack,  were  evils,  and  calling  them  anon poyypeva ; in  refusing 
to  acknowledge  that  health,  safety,  plenty,  were  good  things, 
and  dubbing  them  by  the  name  of  d<hd<popa.  In  his  opin- 
ions on  all  these  subjects,  he  was  not  a Stoic,  nor  an  Epicure- 
an, nor  an  Academic,  but  what  would  have  been  called  by 
Stoics,  Epicureans,  and  Academics,  a mere  idcwrYjs,  a mere 
common  man.  And  it  was  precisely  because  he  was  so 
that  his  name  makes  so  great  an  era  in  the  history  of  the 
world.  It  was  because  he  dug  deep  that  he  was  able  to 
pile  high.  It  was  because,  in  order  to  lay  his  foundations, 
he  went  down  into  those  parts  of  human  nature  which  lie 
low,  but  which  are  not  liable  to  change,  that  the  fabric 
which  he  reared  has  risen  to  so  stately  an  elevation*  and 
stands  with  such  immovable  strength, 


LORD  BACOK, 


2SS 

We  have  sometimes  thought  that  an  amusing  fiction 
might  be  written,  in  which  a disciple  of  Epictetus  and  a 
disciple  of  Bacon  should  be  introduced  as  fellow-travellers. 
They  come  to  a village  where  the  small-pox  has  just  begun 
to  rage,  and  find  houses  shut  up,  intercourse  suspended,  the 
sick  abandoned,  mothers  weeping  in  terror  over  their  chil- 
dren. The  Stoic  assures  the  dismayed  population  that  there 
is  nothing  bad  in  the  small-pox,  and  that  to  a wise  man,  dis- 
ease, deformity,  death,  the  loss  of  friends  are  not  evils. 
The  Baconian  takes  out  a lancet  and  begins  to  vaccinate. 
They  find  a body  of  miners  in  great  dismay.  An  explosion 
of  noisome  vapors  has  just  killed  many  of  those  who  were 
at  work ; and  the  survivors  are  afraid  to  venture  into  the 
cavern.  The  Stoic  assures  them  that  such  an  accident  is 
nothing  but  a mere  drampo^ypEvov.  The  Baconian,  who  has  no 
such  fine  word  at  his  command,  contents  himself  with  de- 
vising a safety-lamp.  They  find  a ship-wrecked  merchant 
wringing  his  hands  on  the  shore.  ' His  vessel  with  an  ines- 
timable cargo  has  just  gone  down,  and  he  is  reduced  in  a 
moment  from  opulence  to  beggary.  The  Stoic  exhorts  him 
not  to  seek  happiness  in  things  which  lie  without  himself, 
and  repeats  the  whole  chapter  of  Epictetus  npos  robs  r^v 
dizoptav  Sedocxoraq.  The  Baconian  constructs  a diving-bell, 
goes  down  in  it,  and  returns  with  the  most  precious  effects 
from  the  wreck.  It  would  be  easy  to  multiply  illustrations 
of  the  difference  between  the  philosophy  of  thorns  and  the 
philosophy  of  fruit,  the  philosophy  of  words  and  the  philos- 
ophy of  works. 

Bacon  has  been  accused  of  overrating  the  importance  of 
those  sciences  which  minister  to  the  physical  well-being  of 
man,  and  of  underrating  the  importance  of  moral  philoso- 
phy ; and  it  cannot  be  denied  that  persons  who  read  the 
Novum  Organum  and  the  De  Augmentis , without  advert- 
ing to  the  circumstances  under  which  those  works  were 
written,  will  find  much  that  may  seem  to  countenance  the 
accusation.  It  is  certain,  however,  that  though  in  practice 
he  often  went  very  wrong,  and  though,  as  his  historical 
work  and  his  essays  prove,  he  did  not  hold,  even  in  the- 
ory, very  strict  opinions  on  points  of  political  morality,  he 
was  far  too  wise  a man  not  to  know  how  much  our  well- 
being depends  on  the  regulation  of  our  minds.  The  world 
for  which  he  wished  was  not,  as  some  people  seem  to  im- 
agine, a world  of  water-wheels,  power-looms,  steam-carriages, 
sensualists,  and  knaves.  He  would  have  been  as  ready  as 


234  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

Zeno  himself  to  maintain  that  no  bodily  comforts  which 
could  be  devised  by  the  skill  and  labor  of  a hundred  gener- 
ations would  give  happiness  to  a man  whose  mind  was 
under  the  tyranny  of  licentious  appetite,  of  envy,  of  hatred, 
or  of  fear.  If  he  sometimes  appeared  to  ascribe  importance 
too  exclusively  to  the  arts  which  increase  the  outward  com- 
forts of  our  species,  the  reason  is  plain.  Those  arts  had 
been  most  unduly  depreciated.  They  had  been  represented 
as  unworthy  the  attention  of  a man  of  liberal  education. 
“ Cogitavit,”  says  Bacon  of  himself,  “ earn  esse  opmionem 
sive  aestimationem  humidam  et  damnosam,  minui  nernpe 
majestatem  mentis  humanae,  si  in  expenmentis  et  rebus 
particularibus,  sensui  subjectis,  et  in  materia  terminatis,  diu 
ac  multum  versetur ; praesertim  cum  hujusmodi  res  ad  in- 
quirendum laboriosaB  ad  meditandum  ignobiles,  ad  discen- 
dum  asperae,  ad  practicam  llliberales,  numero  infinitae,  et 
subtilitate  pusillae  videri  soleant,  et  ob  hujusmodi  conditiones, 
glorias  artium  minus  sint  accommodatae.”  * This  opinion 
seemed  to  him  “ omnia  in  familia  humanaturbasse.”  It  had 
undoubtedly  caused  many  arts  which  were  of  the  greatest 
utility,  and  which  were  susceptible  of  the  greatest  improve- 
ments, to  be  neglected  by  speculators,  and  abandoned  to 
joiners,  masons,  smiths,  weavers,  apothecaries.  It  was  ne- 
cessary to  assert  the  dignity  of  those  arts,  to  bring  them 
prominently  forward,  to  proclaim  that,  as  they  have  a most 
serious  effect  on  human  happiness,  they  are  not  unworthy 
of  the  attention  of  the  highest  human  intellects.  Again,  it 
was  by  illustrations  drawn  from  these  arts  that  Bacon  could 
most  easily  illustrate  his  principles.  It  was  by  improvements 
effected  in  these  arts  that  the  soundness  of  his  principles 
could  be  most  speedily  and  decisively  brought  to  the  test, 
and  made  manifest  to  common  understandings.  He  acted 
like  a wise  commander  who  thins  every  other  part  of  his 
line  to  strengthen  a point  where  the  enemy  is  attacking  with 
peculiar  fury,  and  on  the  fate  of  which  the  event  of  the  bat- 
tle seems  likely  to  depend.  In  the  Novum  Organum , how- 
ever, he  distinctly  and  most  truly  declares  that  his  philoso- 
phy is  no  less  a Moral  than  a Natural  Philosophy,  that, 
though  his  illustrations  are  drawn  from  physical  science, 
the  principles  which  those  illustrations  are  intended  to 
explain  are  just  as  applicable  to  ethical  and  political  in- 

* Cogitata  et  Visa.  The  expression  opinio  humida  may  surprise  a reader  not 
accustomed  to  Bacon’s  style.  The  allusion  is  to  the  maxim  of  Heraclitus  the 
obscuie  : “ Dry  light  is  the  best.”  By  dry  light,  Bacon  understood  the  light  of 
ihe  intellect,  not  obscured  by  the  mists  of  passion,  interest,  or  prejudice. 


LORD  BACON. 


235 


quiries  as  to  inquiries  into  the  nature  of  heat  and  vegeta^ 
tion.* 

He  frequently  treated  of  moral  subjects ; and  he  brought 
to  those  subjeets  that  spirit  which  was  the  essence  of  his 
whole  system,  hie  has  left  us  many  admirable  practicable 
observations  on  what  he  somewhat  quaintly  called  the  Geor- 
gies of  the  mind,  on  the  mental  culture  which  tends  to  pro- 
duce good  dispositions.  Some  persons,  he  said,  might  ac- 
cuse him  of  spending  labor  on  a matter  so  simple  that 
his  predecessors  had  passed  it  by  >vith  contempt.  He  de- 
sired such  persons  to  remember  that  he  had  from  the  first 
announced  the  objects  of  his  search  to  be  not  the  splendid 
and  the  surprising,  but  the  useful  and  the  true ; not  the  de- 
luding dreams  which  go  forth  through  the  shining  portals 
of  ivory,  but  the  humbler  realities  of  the  gate  of  horn.  | 

True  to  this  principle,  he  indulged  in  no  rants  about  the 
fitness  of  things,  the  all-sufficiency  of  virtue,  and  the  dignity 
of  human  nature.  He  dealt  not  at  all  in  resounding  noth- 
ings, such  as  those  with  which  Bolingbroke  pretended  to 
comfort  himself  in  exile,  and  in  which  Cicero  vainly  sought 
consolation  after  the  loss  of  Tullia.  The  casuistical  subtil 
ties  which  occupied  the  attention  of  the  keenest  spirits  of 
his  age  had,  it  should  seem,  no  attractions  for  him.  The 
doctors  whom  Escobar  afterwards  compared  to  the  four 
beasts  and  the  four-and-twenty  elders  in  the  Apocalypse, 
Bacon  dismissed  with  most  contemptuous  brevity.  4C  Inanes 
plerumque  evadunt  et  futiles.”  t Nor  did  he  ever  meddle 
with  those  enigmas  which  have  puzzled  hundreds  of  gener- 
ations, and  will  puzzle  hundreds  more.  He  said  nothing 
about  the  grounds  of  moral  obligation,  or  the  freedom  of 
the  human  will.  He  had  no  inclination  to  employ  himself 
in  labors  resembling  those  of  the  damned  in  the  Grecian 
Tartarus,  to  spin  forever  on  the  same  wheel  round  the  same 
pivot,  to  gape  forever  after  the  same  deluding  clusters,  to 
pour  water  forever  into  the  same  bottomless  buckets,  to 
pace  forever  to  and  fro  on  the  same  wearisome  path  after 
the  same  recoiling  stone.  He  exhorted  his  disciples  to  pros- 
ecute researches  of  a very  different  description,  to  consider 
moral  science  as  a practical  science  of  which  the  object  was 
to  cure  the  diseases  and  perturbations  of  the  mind,  and 
which  could  be  improved  only  by  a method  analogous  to 
that  which  has  improved  medicine  and  surgery.  Moral 

* Novum  Qrganum , Lib.  1,  Aph.  127.  t &e  Augmentis , Lib.  7,  s?ap.  3. 

t lb.,  Lib.  7.  Cap.  2. 


236  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

philosophers  ought,  he  said,  to  set  themselves  vigorously  to 
work  for  the  purpose  of  discovering  what  are  the  actual 
effects  produced  on  the  human  character  by  particular  modes 
of  education,  by  the  indulgence  of  particular  habits,  by  the 
study  of  particular  books,  by  society,  by  emulation,  by  imi- 
tation. Then  we  might  hope  to  find  out  what  mode  of  train- 
ing was  most  likely  to  preserve  and  restore  moral  health.  * 

What  he  was  as  a natural  philosopher  and  a moral  phi- 
losopher, that  he  was  also  as  a theologian.  He  was,  we  are 
convinced,  a sincere  believer  in  the  divine  authority  of  the 
Christian  revelation.  Nothing  can  be  found  in  his  writings, 
or  in  any  other  writings,  more  eloquent  and  pathetic  than 
some  passages  which  were  apparently  written  under  the  in- 
fluence of  strong  devotional  feeling.  He  loved  to  dwell  on  the 
power  of  the  Christian  religion  to  effect  much  that  the  an- 
cient philosophers  could  only  promise.  He  loved  to  consider 
that  religion  as  the  bond  of  charity,  the  curb  of  evil  passions, 
the  consolation  of  the  wretched,  the  support  of  the  timid,  the 
hope  of  the  dying.  But  controversies  on  speculative  points 
of  theology  seem  to  have  engaged  scarcely  any  portion  of 
his  attention.  In  what  lie  wrote  on  Church  Government  he 
showed,  as  far  as  he  dared,  a tolerant  and  charitable  spirit. 
He  troubled  himself  not  at  all  about  Homoousians  and 
Homoiousians,  Monotlielites  and  Nestorians.  He  lived  in 
an  age  in  which  disputes  on  the  most  subtle  points  of  divin- 
ity excited  an  intense  interest  throughout  Europe,  and  no- 
where more  than  in  England.  He  was  placed  in  the  very 
thick  of  the  conflict.  He  was  in  power  at  the  time  of  the 
Synod  of  Dort,  and  must  for  months  have  been  daily  deaf- 
ened with  talk  about  election,  reprobation,  and  final  perse- 
verance. Yet  we  do  not  remember  a line  in  his  works  from 
which  it  can  be  inferred  that  he  was  either  a Calvinist  or  an 
Arminian.  While  the  world  was  resounding  with  the  noise 
of  a disputatious  philosophy  and  a disputatious  theology, 
the  Baconian  school,  like  A1  worthy  seated  between  Square 
and  Thwackum,  preserved  a calm  neutrality,  half  scornful, 
half  benevolent,  and,  content  with  adding  to  the  sum'  of 
practical  good,  left  the  war  of  words  to  those  who  liked  it. 

We  have  dwelt  long  on  the  end  of  the  Baconian  philoso- 
phy, because  from  this  peculiarity  all  the  other  peculiarities 
of  that  philosophy  necessarily  arose.  Indeed,  scarcely  any 
person  who  proposed  to  himself  the  same  end  with  Bacon 
could  fail  to  hit  upon  the  same  means. 

# De  Augmentis,  Lib.  7.  Cap.  3. 


LORD  BACOSf. 


237 


The  vulgar  notion  about  Bacon  we  take  to  be  this,  that 
he  invented  a new  method  of  arriving  at  truth,  which 
method  is  called  Induction,  and  that  he  detected  some  fal- 
lacy in  the  syllogistic  reasoning  which  had  been  in  vogue  be- 
fore his  time.  This  notion  is  about  as  well  founded  as  that 
of  the  people  who,  in  the  middle  ages,  imagined  that  Virgil 
was  a great  conjuror.  Many  who  arc  far  too  well  informed  to 
talk  such  extravagant  nonsense  entertain  what  we  think 
incorrect  notions  as  to  what  Bacon  really  effected  in  this 
matter. 

The  inductive  method  has  been  practised  ever  since  the 
beginning  of  the  world  by  every  human  being.  It  is  con- 
stantly practised  by  the  most  ignorant  clown,  by  the  most 
thoughtless  schoolboy,  by  the  very  child  at  the  breast.  That 
method  leads  the  clown  to  the  conclusion  that  if  he  sows 
barley  he  shall  not  reap  wheat.  By  that  method  the  school- 
boy learns  that  a cloudy  day  is  the  best  for  catching  trout. 
The  very  infant,  we  imagine,  is  led  by  induction  to  ex])ect 
milk  from  his  mother  or  nurse,  and  none  from  his  father. 

Not  only  is  it  not  true  that  Bacon  invented  the  induct- 
ive method  ; but  it  is  not  true  that  he  was  the  first  person 
who  correctly  analyzed  that  method  and  explained  its  uses. 
Aristotle  had  long  before  pointed  out  the  absurdity  of  sup- 
posing that  the  syllogistic  reasoning  could  ever  conduct  men 
to  the  discovery  of  any  new  principle,  had  shown  that  such 
discoveries  must  be  made  by  induction,  and  by  induction 
alone,  and  had  given  the  history  of  the  inductive  process, 
concisely  indeed,  but  with  great  perspicuity  and  precision. 

Again,  we  are  not  inclined  to  ascribe  much  practical 
value  to  that  analysis  of  the  inductive  method  which  Bacon 
has  given  in  the  second  book  of  the  Novum  Organum.  It  is 
indeed  an  elaborate  and  correct  analysis.  But  it  is  an  analy- 
sis of  that  which  we  are  all  doing  from  morning  to  night, 
and  which  we  continue  to  do  even  in  our  dreams.  A plain 
man  finds  his  stomach  out  of  order.  He  never  heard  Lord 
Bacon’s  name.  But  he  proceeds  in  the  strictest  conformity 
with  the  rules  laid  down  in  the  second  book  of  the  Novum 
Organum , and  satisfies  himself  that  minced  pies  have  done 
the  mischief.  “ I ate  minced  pies  on  Monday  and  Wednes- 
day, and  I was  kept  awake  by  indigestion  all  night.”  This 
is  the  comparentia  ad  intellectum  instantiarum  convenien- 
tium.  “ I did  not  eat  any  on  Tuesday  and  Friday,  and  I 
was  quite  well.”  This  is  the  comparentia  instantiarum  in 
proximo  yuoe  natura  data  privantur.  “ I ate  very  sparingly 


238  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

of  them  on  Sunday,  and  was  very  slightly  indisposed  in  the 
evening.  But  on  Christmas-day  I almost  dined  on  them, 
and  was  so  ill  that  I was  in  great  danger.”  This  is  the 
comparentia  instantiarum  secundum  magis  et  minus . “It 
cannot  have  been  the  brandy  which  I took  with  them.  F(  r 
I have  drunk  brandy  daily  for  years  without  being  the  worse 
for  it.”  This  is  the  rejectio  naturarum . Our  invalid  then 
proceeds  to  what  is  termed  by  Bacon  the  Vindemiatio , and 
pronounces  that  minced  pies  do  not  agree  with  Irm. 

W e repeat  that  we  dispute  neither  the  ingenuity  nor  the 
accuracy  of  the  theory  contained  in  the  second  book  of  the 
Novum  Organum ; but  we  think  that  Bacon  greatly  over- 
rated its  utility.  We  conceive  that  the  inductive  process, 
like  many  other  processes,  is  not  likely  to  be  better  per- 
formed merely  because  men  know  how  they  perform  it. 
William  Tell  would  not  have  been  one  whit  more  likely  to 
cleave  the  apple  if  he  had  known  that  his  arrow  would  de- 
scribe a ]^rabola  under  the  influence  of  the  attraction  of  the 
earth.  Captain  Barclay  would  not  have  been  more  likely  to 
walk  a thousand  miles  in  a thousand  hours,  # he  had  known 
the  name  and  place  of  every  muscle  in  his  legs.  Monsieur 
Jourdain  probably  did  not  pronounce  D and  F more  cor- 
rectly after  he  had  been  apprised  that  D is  pronounced  by 
touching  the  teeth  with  the  end  of  the  tongue,  and  F by  put- 
ting the  upper  teeth  on  the  lower  lip.  We  cannot  perceive 
that  the  study  of  Grammar  makes  the  smallest  difference  in 
the  speech  of  people  who  have  always  lived  in  good  society 
Not  one  Londoner  in  ten  thousand  can  lay  down  the  rule 3 
for  the  proper  use  of  will  and  shall.  Yet  not  one  Londoner 
in  a million  ever  misplaces  his  will  and  shall.  Doctor  Rob- 
ertson could,  undoubtedly,  have  written  a luminous  disserta- 
tion on  the  use  of  those  words.  Yet,  even  in  his  latest  work, 
he  sometimes  misplaced  them  ludicrously.  No  man  uses  fig 
ures  of  speech  with  more  propriety  because  he  knows  that 
one  figure  is  called  a metonymy  and  another  a synecdoche. 
A drayman  in  a passion  calls  out,  “You  are  a pretty  fellow,” 
without  suspecting  that  he  is  uttering  irony,  and  that  irony 
is  one  of  the  four  primary  tropes.  The  old  systems  of  rhet- 
oric were  never  regarded  by  the  most  experienced  and  dis- 
cerning judges  as  of  any  use  for  the  purpose  of  forming  an 
orator.  “ Ego  hanc  vim  intelligo,”  said  Cicero,  “ esse  in 
praeceptis  omnibus,  non  ut  ea  secuti  oratores  eloquentiae  lau- 
dem  sint  adepti,  sed  quae  sua  sponte  homines  eloquentes  fa- 
cerent,  ea  quosdain  observasse5  atque  id  egisse  ; sic  esse  non 


10RD  BACOtf. 


239 


eloquentiam  ex  artificio,  sed  artificium  ex  eloquentia  natum.” 
We  must  own  that  we  entertain  the  same  opinion  concern- 
ing the  study  of  Logic  which  Cicero  entertained  concerning 
the  study  of  Rhetoric.  A man  of  sense  syllogizes  in  cela - 
rent  and  sesctre  all  day  long  without  suspecting  it ; and, 
though  he  may  not  know  what  an  ignoratio  elenchi  is,  has 
no  difficulty  in  exposing  it  whenever  he  falls  in  with  it ; 
which  is  likely  to  be  as  often  as  he  falls  in  with  a Reverend 
Master  of  Arts  nourished  on  mode  and  figure  in  the  clois* 
ters  of  Oxford.  Considered  merely  as  an  intellectual  feat, 
the  Organum  of  Aristotle  can  scarcely  be  admired  too 
highly.  But  the  more  we  compare  individual  with  individ- 
ual, school  with  school,  nation  with  nation,  generation  with 
generation,  the  more  do  we  lean  to  the  opinion  that  the 
knowledge  of  the  theory  of  logic  has  no  tendency  whatever 
to  make  men  good  reasoners. 

What  Aristotle  did  for  the  syllogistic  process  Bacon  has, 
in  the  second  book  of  the  Novum  Organum , done  for  the 
inductive  process ; that  is  to  say,  he  has  analyzed  it  well. 
His  rules  are  quite  proper ; but  we  do  not  need  them,  be- 
cause they  are  drawn  from  our  own  constant  practice. 

But,  though  everybody  is  constantly  performing  the  pro- 
cess described  in  the  second  book  of  the  Novum  Organum , 
some  men  perform  it  well  and  some  perform  it  ill.  Some 
are  led  by  it  to  truth,  and  some  to  error.  It  led  Franklin 
to  discover  the  nature  of  lightning.  It  led  thousands,  who 
had  less  brains  than  Franklin,  to  believe  in  animal  magnet- 
ism. But  this  was  not  because  Franklin  went  through  the 
process  described  by  Bacon,  and  the  dupes  of  Mesmer 
through  a different  process.  The  compar entice  and  rejectiones 
of  which  we  have  given  examples  will  be  found  in  the  most 
unsound  inductions.  We  have  heard  that  an  eminent  judge 
of  the  last  generation  was  in  the  habit  of  jocosely  propound- 
ing after  dinner  a theory,  that  the  cause  of  the  prevalence 
©f  Jacobinism  was  the  practice  of  bearing  three  names.  He 
quoted  on  the  one  side  Charles  James  Fox,  Richard  Brins- 
ley Sheridan,  John  Horne  Tooke,  John  Philpot  Curran, 
Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  Theobald  Wolfe  Tone.  These 
were  instantice  convenientes . He  then  proceeded  to  cite 
instances  absentice  in  proximo , William  Pitt,  John  Scott, 
William  Windham,  Samuel  Horsley,  Henry  Dundas,  Ed- 
mund Burke.  He  might  have  gone  on  to  instances  secun- 
dum magis  et  minus . The  practice  of  giving  children 
three  names  has  been  for  some  time  a growing  practice,  and 


240  MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WAITINGS* 

Jacobinism  lias  also  been  growing.  The  practice  of  giving 
children  tnree  names  is  more  common  in  America  than  in 
England.  In  England  we  still  have  a King  and  a House  of 
Lords ; but  the  Americans  are  republicans.  The  rejectiones 
are  obvious.  Burke  and  Theobald  Wolfe  Tone  are  both 
Irishmen  ; therefore  the  being  an  Irishman  is  not  the  cause  of 
Jacobinism.  Horsley  and  Horne  Tooke  are  both  clergymen ; 
therefore  the  being  a clergyman  is  not  the  cause  of  Jaco- 
binism. Fox  and  Windham  were  both  educated  at  Oxford  ; 
therefore  the  being  educated  at  Oxford  is  not  the  cause  of 
Jacobinism.  Pitt  and  Horne  Tooke  were  both  educated  at 
Cambridge  ; therefore  the  being  educated  at  Cambridge  is 
not  the  cause  of  Jacobinism.  In  this  way,  our  inductive 
philosopher  arrives  at  what  Bacon  calls  the  Vintage,  and 
pronounces  that  the  having  three  names  is  the  cause  of 
Jacobinism. 

Here  is  an  induction  corresponding  wdth  Bacon’s  analy- 
sis and  ending  in  a monstrous  absurdity.  In  what  then 
does  this  induction  differ  from  the  induction  which  leads  us 
to  the  conclusion  that  the  presence  of  the  sun  is  the  cause 
of  our  having  more  light  by  day  than  by  night  ? The  dif- 
ference evidently  is  not  in  the  kind  of  instances,  but  in  the 
number  of  instances  ; that  is  to  say,  the  difference  is  not  in 
that  part  of  the  process  for  which  Bacon  has  given  precise 
rules,  but  in  a circumstance  for  which  no  precise  rule  can 
possibly  be  given.  If  the  learned  author  of  the  theory 
about  Jacobinism  had  enlarged  either  of  his  tables  a little,  his 
system  would  have,  been  destroyed.  The  names  of  Tom 
Paine  and  William  Wyndham  Grenville  would  have  been 
sufficient  to  do  the  w'ork. 

It  appears  to  us,  then,  that  the  difference  between  a 
sound  and  unsound  induction  does  not  lie  in  this,  that  the 
author  of  the  sound  induction  goes  through  the  process 
analyzed  in  the  second  book  of  the  Novum  Organum , and 
the  author  of  the  unsound  induction  through  a different 
process.  They  both  perform  the  same  process.  But  one 
performs  it  foolishly  or  carelessly ; the  other  performs  it 
with  patience,  attention,  sagacity,  and  judgment.  Now 
precepts  can  do  little  towards  making  men  patient  and  at- 
tentive, and  still  less  towards  making  them  sagacious  and 
judicious.  It  is  very  well  to  tell  men  to  be  on  their  guard 
against  prejudices,  not  to  believe  facts  on  slight  evidence, 
not  to  be  content  with  a scanty  collection  of  facts,  to  put 
out  of  their  minds  the  idola  wl  ich  Bacon  has  so  finely  do* 


lord  baco 


m 


scribed.  But  these  rules  fire  too  general  to  be  of  much 
practical  use.  The  question  is,  What  is  a prejudice?  How 
long  does  the  incredulity  with  which  I hear  a new  theory 
propounded  continue  to  be  a wise  and  salutary  incredulity? 
When  does  it  become  an  idolum  specus , the  unreasonable 
pertinacity  of  a too  skeptical  mind  ? What  is  slight  evi- 
dence? What  collection  of  facts  is  scanty?  Will  ten  in- 
stances do,  or  fifty,  or  a hundred  ? In  how  many  months 
would  the  first  human  beings  who  settled  on  the  shores  of 
the  ocean  have  been  justified  in  believing  that  the  moon  had 
an  influence  on  the  tides  ? After  how  many  experiments 
would  Jenner  have  been  justified  in  believing  that  he  had 
discovered  a safeguard  against  the  small-pox  ? These  are 
questions  to  which  it  would  be  most  desirable  to  have  a 
precise  answer;  but  unhappily  they  are  questions  to  which 
no  precise  answer  can  be  returned. 

We  think  then  that  it  is  possible  to  lay  down  accurate 
rules,  as  Bacon  has  done,  for  the  performing  of  that  part 
of  the  inductive  process  which  all  men  perform  alike  ; but 
that  these  rules,  though  accurate,  are  not  wanted,  because 
in  truth  they  only  tell  us  to  do  what  we  are  all  doing.  We 
think  that  it  is  impossible  to  lay  down  any  precise  rule  for 
the  performing  of  that  part  of  the  inductive  process  which 
a great  experimental  philosopher  performs  in  one  way,  and 
a superstitious  old  woman  in  another. 

On  this  subject,  we  think,  Bacon  was  in  an  error.  He  cer- 
tainly attributed  to  his  rules  a value  which  did  not  belong 
to  them.  He  went  so  far  as  to  say,  that,  if  his  method  of 
making  discoveries  were  adopted,  little  would  depend  on 
the  degree  of  force  or  acuteness  of  any  intellect ; that  all 
minds  would  be  reduced  to  one  level,  that  his  philosophy 
resembled  a compass  or  a rule  which  equalizes  all  hands, 
and  enables  the  most  unpractised  person  to  draw  a more 
correct  circle  or  line  than  the  best  draughtsman  can  produce 
without  such  aidA  This  really  seems  to  us  as  extravagant 
as  it  would  have  been  in  Bindley  Murray  to  announce  that 
everybody  who  should  learn  liis  Grammar  would  write  as 
good  English  as  Dryden,  or  in  that  very  able  writer,  the 
Archbishop  of  Dublin,  to  promise  that  all  the  readers  of  his 
Logic  would  reason  like  Chillingworth,  and  that  all  the 
readers  of  his  Rhetoric  would  speak  like  Burke.  That 
Bacon  was  altogether  mistaken  as  to  this  point  will  now 
hardly  be  disputed.  His  philosophy  has  flourished  during 

* Novum,  Organum,  Praef.  and  Lib.  1,  Aph.  122. 

Vol.  II— 16 


242  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

two  hundred  years,  and  has  produced  none  of  this  levelling. 
The  interval  between  a man  of  talents  and  a dunce  is  as 
wide  as  ever ; and  is  never  more  clearly  discernible  than 
when  they  engage  in  researches  which  require  the  constant 
use  of  induction. 

It  will  be  seen  that  we  do  not  consider  Bacon’s  ingenious 
analysis  of  the  inductive  method  as  a very  useful  perform- 
ance. Bacon  was  not,  as  we  have  already  said,  the  inven- 
tor of  the  inductive  method.  He  was  not  even  the  person 
who  first  analyzed  the  inductive  method  correctly,  though 
he  undoubtedly  analyzed  it  more  minutely  than  any  who 
preceded  him.  He  was  not  the  person  who  first  showed 
that  by  the  inductive  method  alone  new  truth  could  be  dis- 
covered. But  he  was  the  person  who  first  turned  the  minds 
of  speculative  men,  long  occupied  in  verbal  disputes,  to  the 
discovery  of  new  and  useful  truth ; and,  by  doing  so,  he  at 
once  gave  to  the  inductive  method  an  importance  and  dig- 
nity which  had  never  before  belonged  to  it.  He  was  not 
the  maker  of  that  road  ; he  was  not  the  discoverer  of  that 
road ; he  was  not  the  person  who  first  surveyed  and  mapped 
that  road.  But  he  was  the  person  who  first  called  the  pub- 
lic attention  to  an  inexhaustible  mine  of  wealth,  which  had 
been  utterly  neglected,  and  which  was  accessible  by  that 
road  alone.  By  doing  so,  he  caused  that  road,  which  had 
previously  been  trodden  only  by  peasants  and  higglers,  to 
be  frequented  by  a higher  class  of  travellers. 

That  which  was  eminently  his  own  in  his  system  was  the 
end  which  he  proposed  to  himself.  The  end  being  given, 
the  means,  as  it  appears  to  us,  could  not  well  be  mistaken. 
If  others  had  aimed  at  the  same  object  with  Bacon,  we  hold 
it  to  be  certain  that  they  would  have  employed  the  same 
method  with  Bacon.  It  would  have  been  hard  to  convince 
Seneca  that  the  inventing  of  a safety-lamp  was  an  employ- 
ment worthy  of  a philosopher.  It  would  have  been  hard 
to  persuade  Thomas  Aquinas  to  descend  from  the  making 
of  syllogisms  to  the  making  of  gunpowder.  Bu,  Seneca 
would  never  have  doubted  for  a moment  that  it  was  only  by 
means  of  a series  of  experiments  that  a safety  lamp  could  be 
invented.  Thomas  Aquinas  would  never  have  thought  that 
his  barbara  and  baralipton  would  enable  him  to  ascertain 
the  proportion  which  charcoal  ought  to  bear  to  saltpetre 
in  a pound  of  gunpowder.  Neither  common  sense  nor  Aris- 
totle would  have  suffered  him  to  fall  into  such  an  absurdity. 
By  stimulating  men  to  the  discovery  of  new  truth,  Bacon 


LORD  BACON. 


243 


stimulated  them  to  employ  the  inductive  method,  the  only 
method,  even  the  ancient  pnilosophers  and  the  schoolmen 
themselves  being  judges,  by  which  new  truth  can  be  dis- 
covered. By  stimulating  men  to  the  discovery  of  useful 
truth,  he  furnished  them  with  a motive  to  perform  the  induc- 
tive process  well  and  carefully.  His  predecessors  had  been,  in 
his  phrase,  not  interpreters,  but  anticipators  of  nature.  They 
had  been  content  with  the  first  principles  at  which  they  had  ar- 
rived by  the  most  scanty  and  slovenly  induction.  And  why 
was  this?  It  was,  we  conceive,  because  their  philosophy 
proposed  to  itself  no  practical  end,  because  it  was  merely 
an  exercise  of  the  mind.  A man  who  wants  to  contrive  a 
new  machine  or  a new  medicine  has  a strong  motive  to  ob- 
serve accurately  and  patiently,  and  to  try  experiment  after 
experiment.  But  a man  who  merely  wants  a theme  for  dis- 
putation or  declamation  has  no  such  motive.  He  is  there- 
fore content  with  premises  grounded  on  assumption,  or  on 
the  most  scanty  and  hasty  induction.  Thus,  we  conceive, 
the  schoolmen  acted.  On  their  foolish  premises  they  often 
argued  with  great  ability;  and  as  their  object  was  “ assen- 
sum  subjugare,  non  res,”  * to  be  victorious  in  controversy, 
not  to  be  victorious  over  nature,  they  were  consistent.  For 
just  as  much  logical  skill  could  be  shown  in  reasoning  on 
false  as  on  true  premises.  But  the  followers  of  the  new 
philosophy,  proposing  to  themselves  the  discovery  of  use- 
ful truth  as  their  object,  must  have  altogether  failed  of  at- 
taining the  object  if  they  had  been  content  to  build  theories 
on  superficial  induction. 

Bacon  has  remarked  f that  in  ages  when  philosophy  was 
stationary,  the  mechanical  arts  went  on  improving.  Why 
was  this  ? Evidently  because  the  mechanic  was  not  content 
with  so  careless  a mode  of  induction  as  served  the  purposes 
of  the  philosopher.  And  why  was  the  philosopher  more 
easily  satisfied  than  the  mechanic?  Evidently  because  the 
object  of  the  mechanic  was  to  mould  things,  whilst  the 
object  of  the  philosopher  was  only  to  mould  words.  Care- 
ful induction  is  not  at  all  necessary  to  the  making  of  a good 
syllogism.  But  it  is  indispensable  to  the  making  of  a good 
shoe.  Mechanics,  therefore,  have  always  been,  as  far  as  the 
range  of  their  humble  but  useful  callings  extended,  not  an- 
ticipators but  interpreters  of  nature.  And  when  a philos- 
ophy arose,  the  object  of  which  was  to  do  on  a large  scale 

* Novum  Organum , Lib.  1.  Aph.  29. 

t De  Any  mentis , Lib.  1. 


244  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

what  the  mechanic  does  on  a small  scale,  to  extend  the 
power  and  to  supply  the  wants  of  man,  the  truth  of  the 
premises,  which  logically  is  a matter  altogether  unimpor- 
tant, became  a matter  of  the  highest  importance ; and  the 
careless  induction  with  which  men  of  learning  had  pre- 
viously been  satisfied  gave  place,  of  necessity,  to  an  induc- 
tion far  more  accurate  and  satisfactory. 

What  Bacon  did  for  inductive  philosophy  may,  we  think, 
be  fairly  stated  thus.  The  objects  of  preceding  speculators, 
were  objects  which  could  be  attained  without  careful  induc- 
tion. Those  speculators,  therefore,  did  not  perform  the  in- 
ductive process  carefully.  Bacon  stirred  up  men  to  pursue 
an  object  which  could  be  attained  only  by  induction,  and 
by  induction  carefully  performed  ; and  consequently  induc- 
tion was  more  carefully  performed.  We  do  not  think  that 
the  importance  of  what  Bacon  did  for  inductive  philosophy 
has  ever  been  overrated.  But  we  think  that  the  nature  of 
his  services  is  often  mistaken,  and  was  not  fully  understood 
even  by  himself.  It  was  not  by  furnishing  philosophers 
with  rules  for  performing  the  inductive  process  well,  but  by 
furnishing  them  with  a motive  for  performing  it  well,  that 
he  conferred  so  vast  a benefit  on  society. 

To  give  to  the  human  mind  a direction  wdiich  it  shall  re- 
tain for  ages  is  the  rare  prerogative  of  a few  imperial  spirits. 
It  cannot,  therefore,  be  uninteresting  to  inquire  what  was 
the  moral  and  intellectual  constitution  which  enabled  Bacon 
to  exercise  so  vast  an  influence  on  the  world. 

In  the  temper  of  Bacon, — we  speak  of  Bacon  the  phi- 
losopher, not  of  Bacon  the  lawyer  and  j^olitician, — there 
was  a singular  union  of  audacity  and  sobriety  The  prom- 
ises which  he  made  to  mankind  might,  to  a superficial 
reader,  seem  to  resemble  the  rants  which  a giv  at  dramatist 
has  put  into  the  mouth  of  an  Oriental  conqueror  half-crazed 
by  good  fortune  and  by  violent  passions. 

“ He  shall  have  chariots  easier  than  air, 

Which  I will  have  invented  ; and  thyself 
That  art  the  messenger  shall  ride  before  him, 

On  a horse  cut  out  of  an  entire  diamond, 

That  shall  be  made  to  go  with  golden  wheels, 

I know  not  how  yet.” 

But  Bacon  performed  what  he  promised.  In  truth,  Fletch- 
er would  not  have  dared  to  make  Arbaces  promise,  in  his 
wildest  fits  of  excitement,  the  tithe  of  what  the  Baconian 
philosophy  has  performed. 

'Tie  true  philosophical  temperament  i *y,  we  think,  be 


LORD  BACON, 


245 


described  in  four  words,  much  hope,  little  faitn ; a disposi- 
tion to  believe  that  anything,  however  extraordinary,  may 
be  done  ; an  indisposition  to  believe  that  anything  extraor- 
dinary has  been  done.  In  these  points  the  constitution  of 
Bacon’s  mind  seems  to  us  to  have  been  absolutely  perfect. 
He  was  at  once  the  Mammon  and  the  Surly  of  his  friend 
Ben.  Sir  Epicure  did  not  indulge  in  visions  more  magnifi- 
cent and  gigantic.  Surly  did  not  sift  evidence  with  keener 
and  more  sagacious  incredulity. 

Closely  connected  with  this  peculiarity  of  Bacon’s  tem- 
per was  a striking  peculiarity  of  his  understanding.  With 
great  minuteness  of  observation  he  had  an  amplitude  of  com- 
prehension such  as  has  never  yet  been  vouchsafed  to  any 
other  human  being.  The  small  fine  mind  of  Labruyere  had 
not  a more  delicate  tact  than  the  large  intellect  of  Bacon. 
The  Essays  contain  abundant  jn’oofs  that  no  nice  feature  of 
character,  no  peculiarity  in  the  ordering  of  a house,  a gar- 
den, or  a court-masque,  could  escape  the  notice  of  one  whose 
mind  was  capable  of  taking  in  the  whole  world  of  knowl- 
edge. His  understanding  resembled  the  tent  which  the 
fairy  Paribanou  gave  to  Prince  Ahmed.  Fold  it;  and  it 
seemed  a toy  for  the  hand  of  a lady.  Spread  it ; and  the 
armies  of  powerful  Sultans  might  repose  beneath  its  shade. 

In  keenness  of  observation  he  has  been  equalled  though 
perhaps  never  surpassed.  But  the  largeness  of  his  mind 
was  all  his  own.  The  glance  with  which  he  surveyed  the 
intellectual  universe  resembled  that  which  the  Archangel, 
from  the  golden  threshold  of  heaven,  darted  down  into  the 
new  creation. 

“ Round  he  surveyed, — and  well  mighty  where  he  stood 
So  high  above  the  circling  canopy 
Of  night’s  extended  shade, — from  eastern  point 
Of  Libra,  to  the  fleecy  star  which  bears 
Andromeda  far  off  Atlantic  seas 
Beyond  the  horizon.” 

His  knowledge  differed  from  that  of  other  men,  as  a ter- 
restrial globe  differs  from  an  Atlas  which  contains  a differ- 
ent country  on  every  leaf.  The  towns  and  roads  of  England., 
France,  and  Germany  are  better  laid  down  in  the  Atlas  than 
on  the  globe.  But  while  we  are  looking  at  England  we  see 
nothing  of  France ; and  while  we  are  looking  at  France  we  see 
nothing  of  Germany.  We  may  go  to  the  Atlas  to  learn  the 
bearings  and  distances  of  York  and  Bristol,  or  of  Dresden 
and  Prague.  But  it  is  useless  if  we  want  to  know  the  bear- 
ings and  distances  of  France  and  Martinique,  or  of  England 


246  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

and  Canada.  On  the  globe  we  shall  not  find  all  the  market 
towns  in  our  own  neighborhood  ; but  we  shall  learn  from  it 
the  comparative  extent  and  the  relative  position  of  all  the 
kingdoms  of  the  earth.  “I  have  taken,”  said  Bacon,  in  a 
letter  written  when  he  was  only  thirty-one,  to  his  uncle 
Lord  Burleigh,  “ I have  taken  all  knowledge  to  be  my  prov- 
ince.” In  any  other  young  man,  indeed  in  any  other  man, 
this  would  have  been  a ridiculous  flight  of  presumption. 
There  have  been  thousands  of  better  mathematicians,  as- 
tronomers, chemists,  physicians,  botanists,  mineralogists, 
than  Bacon.  No  man  would  go  to  Bacon’s  works  to  learn 
any  particular  science  or  art,  any  more  than  he  would  go 
to  a twelve-inch  globe  in  order  to  find  his  way  from  Ken- 
nington  turnpike  to  Clapham  Common.  The  art  which 
Bacon  taught  was  the  art  of  inventing  arts.  The  knowledge 
in  which  Bacon  excelled  all  men  was  a knowledge  of  the 
mutual  relations  of  all  departments  of  knowledge. 

The  mode  in  which  he  communicated  his  thoughts  was 
peculiar  to  him.  He  had  no  touch  of  that  disputatious  tem- 
per which  he  often  censured  in  his  predecessors.  He  ef- 
fected a vast  intellectual  revolution  in  opposition  to  a vast 
mass  of  prejudices;  yet  he  never  engaged  in  any  contro- 
versy: nay,  we  cannot  at  present  recollect,  in  all  his  phil- 
osophical works,  a single  passage  of  a controversial  char- 
acter. All  those  works  might  with  propriety  have  been 
put  into  the  form  which  he  adopted  in  the  work  entitled 
Cogitata  et  visa : “ Franciscus  Baconus  sic  cogitavit.” 
These  are  thoughts  which  have  occurred  to  me  : weigh  them 
well : and  take  them  or  leave  them. 

Borgia  said  of  the  famous  expedition  of  Charles  the 
Eighth,  that  the  French  had  conquered  Italy,  not  with  steel, 
but  with  chalk ; for  that  the  only  exploit  which  they  had 
found  necessary  for  the  purpose  of  taking  military  occupa- 
tion of  any  place  had  been  to  mark  the  doors  of  the  houses 
where  they  meant  to  quarter.  Bacon  often  quoted  this  say- 
ing, and  loved  to  apply  it  to  the  victories  of  his  own  intel- 
lect.* His  philosophy,  he  said,  came  as  a guest,  not  as  an 
enemy.  She  found  no  difficulty  in  gaining  admittance, 
without  a contest,  into  every  understanding  fitted  by  its 
structure  and  by  its  capacity,  to  receive  her.  In  all  this  we 
think  that  he  acted  most  judiciously ; first,  because,  as  he 
has  himself  remarked,  the  difference  between  his  school  and 
other  schools  was  a difference  so  fundamental  that  there  was 

• Novum  Organum , Lib.  1,  Apli.  35.  and  elsewhere. 


LOKD  BACOK. 


247 


hardly  any  common  ground  on  which  a controversial  battle 
could  be  fought ; and  secondly,  because  his  mind,  eminently 
observant,  preeminently  discursive  and  capacious,  was,  ivre 
conceive,  neither  formed  by  nature  nor  disciplined  by  habit 
for  dialectical  combat. 

Though  Bacon  did  not  arm  his  philosophy  with  the  weap- 
ons of  logic,  he  adorned  her  profusely  with  all  the  richest 
decorations  of  rhetoric.  His  eloquence,  though  not  un- 
tainted with  the  vicious  taste  of  his  age,  would  alone  have 
entitled  him  to  a high  rank  in  literature.  He  had  a wonder- 
ful talent  for  packing  thought  close,  and  rendering  it  port- 
able. In  wit,  if  by  wit  be  meant  the  power  of  perceiving 
analogies  between  things  which  appear  to  have  nothing  in 
common,  he  never  had  an  equal,  not  even  Cowley,  not  even 
the  author  of  Hudibras.  Indeed,  he  possessed  this  faculty, 
or  rather  this  faculty  possessed  him,  to  a morbid  degree. 
When  he  abandoned  himself  to  it  without  reserve,  as  he  did 
in  the  Sapientia  Veterum , and  at  the  end  of  the  second  book 
of  the  De  Augmentis , the  feats  which  he  performed  were 
not  merely  admirable,  but  portentous,  and  almost  shocking. 
On  these  occasions  we  marvel  at  him  as  clowns  on  a fair-day 
marvel  at  a juggler,  and  can  hardly  help  thinking  that  the 
devil  must  be  in  him. 

These,  however,  were  freaks  in  which  his  ingenuity  now 
and  then  wantoned,  with  scarcely  any  other  object  than  to 
astonish  and  amuse.  But  it  occasionally  happened  that, 
when  he  was  engaged  in  grave  and  profound  investigations, 
his  wit  obtained  the  mastery  over  all  his  other  faculties,  and 
led  him  into  absurdities  into  which  no  dull  man  could  possi- 
bly have  fallen.  We  will  give  the  most  striking  instance 
which  at  present  occurs  to  us.  In  the  third  book  of  De 
Augmentis  he  tells  us  that  there  are  some  principles  which 
are  not  peculiar  to  one  science,  but  are  common  to  several. 
That  part  of  philosophy  which  concerns  itself  with  these 
principles  is,  in  his  nomenclature,  designated  as  philo sophia 
prima . He  then  proceeds  to  mention  some  of  the  principles 
with  which  this  philosophia  prima  is  conversant.  One  of 
them  is  this.  An  infectious  disease  is  more  likely  to  be  com- 
municated while  it  is  in  progress  than  when  it  has  reached 
its  height.  This,  says  he,  is  true  in  medicine.  It  is  also  true 
in  morals ; for  we  see  that  the  example  of  very  abandoned 
men  injures  public  morality  less  than  the  example  of  men  in 
whom  vice  has  not  yet  extinguished  all  good  qualities. 
Again,  he  tells  us  that  in  music  a discord  ending  in  a conc<  d 


248 


MACAULAYS  msCfiLLAXEOtTS  WHITINGS. 


is  agreeable,  and  that  the  same  tiling  may  be  noted  in  the 
affections.  Once  more,  he  tells  us,  that  in  physics  flic  en- 
ergy with  which  a principle  acts  is  often  increased  by  the 
antiperistasis  of  its  opposite  ; and  that  it  is  the  same  in  the 
contests  of  factions.  If  the  making  of  ingenious  and  spark- 
ling similitudes  like  these  be  indeed  the  philosophia prima, 
we  are  quite  sure  that  the  greatest  philosophical  work  of  the 
nineteenth  century  is  Mr.  Moore’s  Lalla  Rookh.  The  simili- 
tudes which  we  have  cited  are  very  happy  similitudes.  But 
that  a man  like  Bacon  should  have  taken  them  for  more, 
that  he  should  have  thought  the  discovery  of  such  resem- 
blances as  these  an  important  part  of  philosophy,  has  always 
appeared  to  us  one  of  the  most  singular  facts  in  the  history 
of  letters.  - 

The  truth  is  that  his  mind  was  wonderfully  quick  in  per- 
ceiving analogies  of  all  sorts.  But,  like  several  eminent  men 
whom  we  could  name,  both  living  and  dead,  he  sometimes 
appeared  strangely  deficient  in  the  power  of  distinguishing 
rational  from  fanciful  analogies,  analogies  which  are  argu- 
ments from  analogies  which  are  mere  illustrations,  analogies 
like  that  which  Bishop  Butler  so  ably  pointed  out,  between 
natural  and  revealed  religion,  from  analogies  like  that  which 
Addison  discovered,  between  the  series  of  Grecian  gods 
carved  by  Phidias  and  the  series  of  English  kings  painted  by 
Kneller.  This  want  of  discrimination  has  led  to  many 
strange  political  speculations.  Sir  William  Temple  deduced 
a theory  of  government  from  the  properties  of  the  pyramid. 
Mr.  Southey’s  whole  system  of  finance  is  grounded  on  the 
phenomena  of  evaporation  and  rain.  In  theology,  this  per- 
verted ingenuity  has  made  still  wilder  work.  From  the 
time  of  Irenaeus  and  Origen  down  to  the  present  day,  there 
has  not  been  a single  generation  in  which  great  divines  have 
not  been  led  into  the  most  absurd  expositions  of  Scripture, 
by  mere  incapacity  to  distinguish  analogies  proper,  to  use 
the  scholastic  phrase,  from  analogies  metaphorical.*  It  is 
curious  that  Bacon  has  himself  mentioned  this  very  kind  of 
de.usion  among  the  idola  specus  ; and  has  mentioned  in 
language  which,  we  are  inclined  to  think,  shows  that  he 
knew  himself  to  "be  subject  to  it.  It  is  the  vice,  he  tells  us, 
of  subtle  minds  to  attach  too  much  importance  to  slight  dis- 
tinctions ; it  is  the  vice,  on  the  other  hand,  of  high  and 
discursive  intellects  to  attach  too  much  importance  to  slight 

* See  some  interesting  remarks  on  this  subject  in  Bishop  Berkley’s  Minute 
Philosopher,  Dialogue  IV* 


LORD  BACON. 


249 

resemblances ) and  he  adds  that,  when  this  last  propensity 
is  indulged  to  excess,  it  leads  men  to  catch  at  shadows 
instead  of  substances.* 

Yet  we  cannot  wish  that  Bacon"  s wit  had  been  less  lux- 
uriant. For,  to  say  nothing  of  the  pleasure  which  it  affords, 
it  was  in  the  vast  majority  of  cases  employed  for  the  pur- 
pose of  making  obscure  truth  plain,  of  making  repulsive 
truth  attractive,  of  fixing  in  the  mind  forever  truth  which 
might  otherwise  have  left  but  a transient  impression. 

The  poetical  faculty  was  powerful  in  Bacon’s  mind,  but 
not,  like  his  wit,  so  powerful  as  occasionally  to  usurp  the 
place  of  his  reason,  and  to  tyrannize  over  the  whole  man. 
No  imagination  was  ever  at  once  so  strong  and  so  thor- 
oughly subjugated.  It  never  stirred  but  at  a signal  from 
good  sense.  It  stopped  at  the  first  check  from  good 
sense.  Yet,  though  disciplined  to  such  obedience,  it  gave 
noble  proofs  of  its  vigor.  In  truth,  much  of  Bacon’s  life 
was  passed  in  a visionary  world,  amidst  things  as  strange 
as  any  that  are  described  in  the  Arabian  Tales,  or  in  those 
romances  on  which  the  curate  and  barber  of  Don  Quixote’s 
village  performed  so  cruel  an  auto-de-fe , amidst  buildings 
more  sumptuous  than  the  palace  of  Aladdin,  fountains  more 
wonderful  than  the  golden  water  of  Parizade,  conveyances 
more  rapid  than  the  hippogryph  of  Ruggiero,  arms  more 
formidable  than  the  lance  of  Astolfo,  remedies  more  effica- 
cious than  the  balsam  of  Fierabras.  Yet  in  his  magnificent 
day-dreams  there  was  nothing  wild,  nothing  but  what  sober 
reason  sanctioned.  He  knew  that  all,  the  secrets  feigned  by 
poets  to  have  been  written  in  the  books  of  enchanters  are 
worthless  when  compared  with  the  mighty  secrets  which  are 
really  written  in  the  book  of  nature,  and  which,  with  time 
and  patience,  will  be  read  there.  lie  knew  that  all  the 
wonders  wrought  by  all  the  talismans  in  fable  were  trifles 
when  compared  to  the  wonders  which  might  reasonably 
be  expected  from  the  philosophy  of  fruit,  and  that,  if  his 
Avords  sank  deep  into  the  minds  of  men,  they  would  pro- 
duce effects  such  as  superstition  had  never  ascribed  to  the 
incantations  of  Merlin  and  Michael  Scot.  It  Avas  here  that 
he  loved  to  let  his  imagination  loose.  He  loved  to  picture 
to  himself  the  world  as  it  Avould  be  Avhen  his  philosophy 
should,  in  his  oavb  noble  phrase,  “ have  enlarged  the  bounds 
of  human  empire.”  f W e might  refer  to  many  instances. 
But  we  will  content  ourselves  >yith  the  strongest,  the 
* Mmn  Qrgmgwa,  Xib  i Apii,  t 


250 


MACAULAY  S MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


description  of  the  House  of  Solomon  in  the  New  Atlantis. 
By  most  of  Bacon’s  contemporaries,  and  by  some  people  of 
our  time,  this  remarkable  passage  would,  we  doubt  not,  be 
considered  as  an  ingenious  rodomontade,  a counterpart  to 
the  adventures  of  Sinbad  or  Baron  Munchausen.  The  truth 
is,  that  there  is  not  to  be  found  in  any  human  composition 
a passage  more  eminently  distinguished  by  profound  and 
serene  wisdom.  The  boldness  and  originality  of  the  fiction 
is  far  less  wonderful  than  the  nice  discernment  which  care- 
fully excluded  from  that  long  list  of  prodigies  everything 
that  can  be  pronounced  impossible,  everything  that  can  be 
proved  to  lie  beyond  the  mighty  magic  of  induction  and  of 
time.  Already  some  parts,  and  not  the  least  startling  parts, 
of  this  glorious  prophecy  have  been  accomplished,  even  ac- 
cording to  the  letter ; and  the  whole,  construed  according 
to  the  spirit,  is  daily  accomplishing  all  around  us. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  circumstances  in  the  history 
of  Bacon’s  mind  is  the  order  in  which  its  powers  expanded 
themselves.  With  him  the  fruit  came  first  and  remained 
till  the  last ; the  blossoms  did  not  appear  till  late.  In  gen- 
eral, the  development  of  the  fancy  is  to  the  development  of 
the  judgment  what  the  growth  of  a girl  is  to  the  growth  of 
a boy.  The  fancy  attains  at  an  earlier  period  to  the  perfec- 
tion of  its  beauty,  its  power,  and  its  fruitfulness ; and,  as  it 
is  first  to  ripen,  it  is  also  first  to  fade.  It  has  generally  lost 
something  of  its  bloom  and  freshness  before  the  sterner  fac- 
ulties have  reached  maturity;  and  it  is  commonly  withered 
and  barren  while  those  faculties  still  retain  all  their  energy. 
It  rarely  happens  that  the  fancy  and  the  judgment  grow 
together.  It  happens  still  more  rarely  that  the  judgment 
grows  faster  than  the  fancy.  This  seems,  however,  to  have 
been  the  case  with  Bacon.  His  boyhood  and  youth  appear 
to  have  been  singularly  sedate.  His  gigantic  scheme  of 
philosophical  reform  is  said  by  some  writers  to  have  been 
planned  before  he  was  fifteen,  and  was  undoubtedly  planned 
while  he  was  still  young.  He  observed  as  vigilantly,  medi- 
tated as  deeply,  and  judged  as  temperately  when  he  gave 
his  first  work  to  the  world  as  at  the  close  of  his  long  career. 
But  in  eloquence,  in  sweetness  and  variety  of  expression, 
and  in  richness  of  illustration,  his  later  writings  are  far  su- 
perior to  those  of  his  youth.  In  this  respect  the  history  of 
Lis  mind  bears  some  resemblance  to  the  history  of  the  mind 
of  Burke.  The  treatise  on  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful, 
though  written  on  a subject  which  the  coldest  metaphysician 


LORD  BACON, 


251 


could  hardly  treat  without  being  occasionally  betrayed  into 
florid  writing,  is  the  most  unadorned  of  all  Burke’s  works. 
It  appeared  when  he  was  twenty-five  or  twenty-six.  When, 
at  forty,  he  wrote  the  Thoughts  on  the  Causes  of  the  exist- 
ing Discontents,  his  reason  and  his  judgment  had  reached 
their  full  maturity  ; but  his  eloquence  was  still  in  its  splen- 
did dawn.  At  fifty,  his  rhetoric  was  quite  as  rich  as  good 
taste  would  permit ; and  when  he  died,  at  almost  seventy, 
it  had  become  ungracefully  gorgeous.  In  his  youth  he  wrcte 
on  the  emotions  produced  by  mountains  and  cascades,  by 
the  master-pieces  of  painting  and  sculpture,  by  the  faces 
and  necks  of  beautiful  women,  in  the  style  of  a Parliamen- 
tary report.  In  his  old  age  he  discussed  treaties  and  tariffs 
in  the  most  fervent  and  brilliant  language  of  romance.  It 
is  strange  that  the  Essay  on  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful,  and 
the  Letter  to  a Noble  Lord,  should  be  the  productions  of 
one  man.  But  it  is  far  more  strange  that  the  Essay  should 
have  been  a production  of  his  youth,  and  the  Letter  of  his 
old  age. 

We  will  give  very  short  specimens  of  Bacon’s  two  styles. 
In  1597,  he  wrote  thus : “ Crafty  men  contemn  studies ; 
simple  men  admire  them  ; and  wise  men  use  them  ; for  they 
teach  not  their  own  use : that  is  a wisdom  without  them, 
and  won  by  observation.  Read  not  to  contradict,  nor  to 
believe,  but  to  weigh  and  consider.  Some  books  are  to  be 
tasted,  others  to  be  swallowed,  and  some  few  to  be  chewed 
and  digested.  Reading  maketli  a full  man,  conference  a 
ready  man,  and  writing  an  exact  man.  And  therefore  if  a 
man  write  little,  he  had  need  have  a great  memory ; if  he 
confer  little,  have  a present  wit ; and  if  he  read  little,  have 
much  cunning  to  seem  to  know  that  he  doth  not.  Histories 
make  men  wise,  poets  witty,  the  mathematics  subtle,  natural 
philosophy  deep,  morals  grave,  logic  and  rhetoric  able  to 
contend.”  It  will  hardly  be  disputed  that  this  is  a passage 
to  be  “chewed  and  digested.”  We  do  not  believe  that 
Thucydides  himself  has  anywhere  compressed  so  much 
thought  into  so  small  a space. 

In  the  additions  which  Bacon  afterwards  made  to  the 
Essays,  there  is  nothing  superior  in  truth  or  weight  to  what 
we  have  quoted.  But  his  style  was  constantly  becoming 
richer  and  softer.  The  following  passage,  first  published  in 
1625,  will  show  the  extent  of  the  change  : “ Prosperity  is 
the  blessing  of  the  old  Testament ; adversity  is  the  blessing 
of  the  New,  which  carrieth  the  greater  benedictiou  and  the 


252  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

clearer  evidence  of  God’s  favor.  Yet,  even  in  the  Old  Tes- 
tament, if  you  listen  to  David’s  harp  you  shall  hear  as  many 
hearse-like  airs  as  carols ; and  the  pencil  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
hath  labored  more  in  describing  the  afflictions  of  Job  than 
the  felicities  of  Solomon.  Prosperity  is  not  without  many 
fears  and  distastes ; and  adversity  is  not  without  comforts 
and  hopes.  We  see  in  needle-works  and  embroideries  it  is 
more  pleasing  to  have  a lively  work  upon  a sad  and  solemn 
ground,  than  to  have  a dark  and  melancholy  work  upon  a 
lightsome  ground.  Judge  therefore  of  the  pleasure  of  the 
heart  by  the  pleasure  of  the  eye.  Certainly  virtue  is  like 
precious  odors,  most  fragrant  when  they  are  incensed  or 
crushed  ; for  prosperity  doth  best  discover  vice,  but  adver- 
sity doth  best  discover  virtue.” 

It  is  by  the  Essays  that  Bacon  is  best  known  to  the  mul- 
titude. The  Novum  Organum  and  the  De  Augmentis  are 
much  talked  of,  but  little  read.  They  have  produced  indeed 
a vast  effect  on  the  ojnnions  of  mankind  ; but  they  have  pro- 
duced it  through  the  operation  of  intermediate  agents.  They 
have  moved  the  intellects  which  have  moved  the  world.  It  is 
in  the  Essays  alone  that  the  mind  of  Bacon  is  brought  into  im- 
mediate contact  with  the  minds  of  ordinary  readers.  There 
he  opens  an  exoteric  school,  and  talks  to  plain  men,  in  lan- 
guage which  everybody  understands,  about  things  in  which 
everybody  is  interested.  He  has  thus  enabled  those  who  must 
otherwise  have  taken  his  merits  on  trust  to  judge  for  them- 
selves ; and  the  great  body  of  readers  have,  during  several 
generations,  acknowledged  that  the  man  who  has  treated 
with  such  consummate  ability  questions  with  which  they 
are  familar  may  well  be  supposed  to  deserve  all  the  praise 
bestowed  on  him  by  those  who  have  sat  in  his  inner  school. 

Without  any  disparagement  to  the  admirable  treatise 
De  Augmentis , we  must  say  that,  in  our  judgment,  Bacon’s 
greatest  performance  is  the  first  book  of  the  Novum  Or- 
ganum. All  the  peculiarities  of  his  extraordinary  mind  arc 
found  there  in  the  highest  perfection.  Many  of  the  aphor- 
isms, but  particularly  those  in  which  he  gives  examples  of 
the  influence  of  the  iclola , show  a nicety  of  observation  that 
has  never  been  surpassed.  Every  part  of  the  book  blazes 
with  wit,  but  with  wit  which  is  employed  only  to  illustrate 
and  decorate  truth.  No  book  ever  made  so  great  a revolu- 
tion in  the  mode  of  thinking,  overthrew  so  many  prejudices, 
introduced  so  many  new  opinions.  Yet  no  book  was  ever 
written  in  a less  contentious  spirit.  It  truly  conquers  with 


LORD  BA  COST. 


253 


chalk  and  not  with  steel.  Proposition  after  proposition 
enters  into  the  mind,  is  received  not  as  an  invader,  but  as 
a welcome  friend,  and  though  previously  unknown,  becomes 
at  once  domesticated.  But  what  we  most  admire  is  the 
vast  capacity  of  that  intellect  which,  without  effort,  takes 
in  at  once  all  the  domains  of  science,  all  the  past,  the  pres- 
ent, and  the  future,  all  the  errors  of  two  thousand  years,  all 
the  encouraging  signs  of  the  passing  times,  all  the  bright 
hopes  of  the  coming  age.  Cowley,  who  was  among  the 
most  ardent,  and  not  among  the  least  discerning  followers 
of  the  new  philosophy,  has,  in  one  of  his  finest  poems,  com- 
pared Bacon  to  Moses  standing  on  Mount  Pisgah.  It  is  to 
Bacon,  we  think,  as  he  appears  in  the  first  book  of  the 
Novum  Organum , that  the  comparison  applies  with  peculiar 
felicity.  There  we  see  the  great  Lawgiver  looking  round 
from  his  lonely  elevation  on  an  infinite  exjoanse  ; behind 
him  a wilderness  of  dreary  sands  and  bitter  waters,  in  which 
successive  generations  have  sojourned,  always  moving,  yet 
never  advancing,  reaping  no  harvest,  and  building  no  abid- 
ing city;  before  him  a goodly  land,  a land  of  promise,  a 
land  flowing  with  milk  and  honey.  While  the  multitude 
below  saw  only  the  flat  sterile  desert  in  which  they  had  so 
long  wandered,  bounded  on  every  side  by  a near  horizon,  or 
diversified  only  by  some  deceitful  mirage,  he  was  gazing 
from  a far  higher  stand  on  a far  lovelier  country,  following 
with  his  eye,  the  long  course  of  fertilizing  rivers,  through 
ample  pastures,  and  under  the  bridges  of  great  capitals, 
measuring  the  distances  of  marts  and  havens,  and  portion- 
ing out  all  those  wealthy  regions  from  Dan  to  Beersheba. 

It  is  painful  to  turn  back  from  contemplating  Bacon’s 
philosophy  to  contemplate  his  life.  Yet  without  so  turning 
back  it  is  impossible  fairly  to  estimate  his  powers.  He  left 
the  University  at  an  earlier  age  than  that  at  which  most 
people  repair  thither.  While  yet  a boy  he  was  plunged  into 
the  midst  of  diplomatic  business.  Thence  he  passed  to  the 
study  of  a vast  technical  system  of  law,  and  worked  his 
way  up  through  a succession  of  laborious  offices,  to  the 
.highest  post  in  his  profession.  In  the  mean  time  he  took 
an  active  part  in  every  Parliament ; he  was  an  adviser  of 
the  Crown : ho  paid  court  with  the  greatest  assiduity  and 
address  to  all  whose  favor  was  likely  to  be  of  use  to  him ; 
he  lived  much  in. society ; he  noted  the  slightest  peculiarities 
of  character,  and  the  slightest  changes  of  fashion.  Scarcely 
any  man  has  led’  a more  stirring  life  than  that  which  Bacon 


254  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  whitings. 

led  from  sixteen  to  sixty.  Scarcely  any  man  has  been  better 
entitled  to  be  called  a thorough  man  of  the  world.  The 
founding  of  a new  philosophy,  the  imparting  of  a new  di- 
rection to  the  minds  of  speculators,  this  was  the  amusement 
of  his  leisure,  the  work  of  hours  occasionally  stolen  from 
the  Woolsack  and  the  Council  Board.  This  consideration, 
while  it  increases  the  admiration  with  'which  we  regard  his 
intellect,  increases  also  our  regret  that  such  an  intellect 
should  so  often  have  been  unworthily  employed.  He  well 
knew  the  better  course,  and  had,  at  one  time,  resolved  to 
pursue  it.  “ I confess,”  said  he  in  a letter  written  when  he 
was  still  young,  “ that  I have  as  vast  contemplative  ends  as 
I have  moderate  civil  ends.”  Had  his  civil  ends  continued 
to  be  moderate,  he  would  have  been,  not  only  the  Moses, 
but  the  Joshua  of  philosophy.  He  would  have  fulfilled  a 
large  part  of  his  own  magnificent  predictions.  He  would 
have  led  his  followers,  not  only  to  the  verge,  but  into  the 
heart  of  the  promised  land.  He  would  not  merely  have 
pointed  out,  but  would  have  divided  the  spoil.  Above  all, 
lie  would  have  left,  not  only  a great,  but  a spotless  name. 
Mankind  would  then  have  been  able  to  esteem  their  illustri- 
ous benefactor.  We  should  not  then  be  compelled  to  regard 
his  character  with  mingled  contempt  and  admiration,  with 
mingled  aversion  and  gratitude.  We  should  not  then  re- 
gret that  there  should  be  so  many  proofs  of  the  narrowness 
and  selfishness  of  a heart,  the  benevolence  of  which  was  yet 
large  enough  to  take  in  all  races  and  all  ages.  We  should 
not  then  have  to  blush  for  the  disingenuousness  of  the  most 
devoted  worshipper  of  speculative  truth,  for  the  servility  of 
the  boldest  champion  of  intellectual  freedom.  We  should 
not  then  have  seen  the  same  man  at  one  time  far  in  the  van, 
at  another  time  far  in  the  rear  of  his  generation.  We  should 
not  then  be  forced  to  own  that  he  who  first  treated  legisla- 
tion as  a science  was  among  the  last  Englishmen  who  used 
the  rack,  that  he  who  first  summoned  philosophers  to  the 
great  work  of  interpreting  nature,  was  among  the  last  Eng- 
lishmen who  sold  justice.  And  we  should  conclude  our 
survey  of  a life  placidly,  honorably,  beneficently  passed, 
“ in  industrious  observations,  grounded  conclusions,  and 
profitable  inventions  and  discoveries,”  * with  feelings  very 
different  from  those  with  which  we  now  turn  away  from  th? 
checkered  spectacle  of  so  much  glory  and  so  much  shame. 

* From  a Letter  of  Bacon  to  Lord  Burleigb. 


SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


255 


SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE* 

• ( Edinburgh  Review , October , 1838.) 

Mr.  Courtenay  lias  long  been  well  known  to  politicians 
as  an  industrious,  and  useful  official  man,  and  as  an  upright 
and  consistent  member  of  Parliament.  He  has  been  one  of 
tie  most  moderate,  and,  at  the  same  time,  one  of  the  least 
pliant  members  of  the  Conservative  party.  His  conduct 
lias,  indeed,  on  some  questions,  been  so  Whiggish,  that  both 
those  who  applauded  and  those  who  condemned  it  have 
questioned  his  claim  to  be  considered  as  a Tory.  But  his 
Toryism,  such  as  it  is,  he  has  held  fast  through  all  changes 
of  fortune  and  fashion;  and  he  has  at  last  retired  from 
public  life,  leaving  behind  him,  to  the  best  of  our  belief,  no 
personal  enemy,  and  carrying  with  him  the  respect  and  good 
will  of  many  who  strongly  dissent  from  his  opinions. 

This  book,  the  fruit  of  Mr.  Courtenay’s  leisure,  is  intro- 
duced by  a preface  in  which  he  informs  us  that  the  assist- 
ance furnished  to  him  from  various  quarters  44  has  taught 
him  the  superiority  of  literature  to  politics  for  developing 
the  kindlier  feelings,  and  conducing  to  an  agreeable  life.” 
We  are  truly  glad  that  Mr.  Courtenay  is  so  well  satisfied 
with  his  new  employment,  and  we  heartily  congratulate  him 
on  having  been  driven  by  events  to  make  an  exchange  which, 
advantageous  as  it  is,  few  people  make  while  they  can  avoid 
it.  He  has  little  reason,  in  our  opinion,  to  envy  any  of  those 
who  are  still  engaged  in  a pursuit  from  which,  at  most,  they 
can  only  expect  that,  by  relinquishing  liberal  studies  and 
social  pleasures,  by  passing  nights  without  sleep  and  sum* 
mers  without  one  glimpse  of  the  beauty  of  nature,  they  may 
attain  that  laborious,  that  invidious,  that  closely  watched 
slavery  which  is  mocked  with  the  name  of  power. 

The  volumes  before  us  are  fairly  entitled  to  the  praise  of 
diligence,  care,  good  sense,  and  impartiality ; and  these 
qualities  are  sufficient  to  make  a book  valuable,  but  not 
quite  sufficient  to  make  it  readable.  Mr.  Courtenay  has  not 
sufficiently  studied  the  arts  of  selection  and  compression. 

* Memoirs  of  the  Life , W orks,  and  Correspondence  of  Sir  William  Temple • 
By  the  Right  Hon.  Thomas  Peregrine  Courtenay.  2 yols,  8vo,  Loudon  : 18315. 


256  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

The  information  with  which  he  furnishes  us,  must  still,  we 
apprehend,  be  considered  as  so  much  raw  material.  To 
manufacturei s it  will  be  highly  useful;  but  it  is  not  yet  in 
such  a form  that  it  can  be  enjoyed  by  the  idle  consumer. 
To  drop  metaphor,  we  are  afraid  that  this  work  will  be  less 
acceptable  to  those  who  read  for  the  sake  o.f  reading,  than 
to  those  who  read  in  order  to  write. 

We  cannot  help  adding,  though  we  are  extremely  unwil- 
ling to  quarrel  with  Mr.  Courtenay  about  politics,  that  the 
book  would  not  be  at  all  the  worse  if  it  contained  fewer 
snarls  against  the  Whigs  of  the  present  day.  Not  only 
are  these  passages  out  of  place  in  a historical  work,  but 
some  of  them  are  intrinsically  such  that  they  would  be- 
come the  editor  of  a third-rate  party  newspaper  better 
than  a gentleman  of  Mr.  Courtenay’s  talents  and  knowl- 
edge. For  example,  we  are  told  that,  “it  is  a remark- 
able circumstance,  familiar  to  those  who  are  acquainted 
with  history,  but  suppressed  by  the  new  Whigs,  that  the 
liberal  politicians  of  the  seventeenth  century  and  the  greater 
part  of  the  eighteenth,  never  extended  their  liberality  to  the 
native  Irish,  or  the  professors  of  the  ancient  religion.”  What 
schoolboy  of  fourteen  is  ignorant  of  this  remarkable  circum- 
stance ? What  Whig,  new  or  old,  was  ever  such  an  idiot  as 
to  think  that  it  could  be  suppressed  ? Really  we  might  as 
well  say  that  it  is  a remarkable  circumstance,  familiar  to 
people  well  read  in  history,  but  carefully  suppressed  by  the 
Clergy  of  the  Established  Church,  that  in  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury England  was  in  communion  with  Rome.  We  are 
tempted  to  make  some  remarks  on  another  passage,  which 
seems  to  be  the  peroration  of  a speech  intended  to  have  been 
spoken  against  the  Reform  Bill:  but  we  forbear. 

We  doubt  whether  it  will  be  found  that  the  memory  of 
Sir  William  Temple  owes  much  to  Mr.  Courtenay’s  re- 
searches. Temple  is  one  of  those  men  whom  the  world  has 
agreed  to  praise  highly  without  knowing  much  about  them, 
and  who  are  therefore  more  likely  to  lose  than  to  gain  by  a 
close  examination.  Yet  he  is  not  without  fair  pretensions 
to  the  most  honorable  place  among  the  statesmen  of  his  time. 
A few  of  them  equalled  or  surpassed  him  in  talents ; but 
they  were  men  of  no  good  repute  for  honesty.  A few  may 
be  named  whose  patriotism  was  purer,  nobler,  and  more  dis- 
interested than  his ; but  they  were  men  of  no  eminent  ability. 
Morally,  he  was  above  Shaftesbury  5 intellectually,  he  wa$ 
above  Russell, 


SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


257 


To  say  of  a man  that  he  occupied  a high  position  in  times 
of  misgovernment,  of  corruption,  of  civil  and  religious  faction, 
that  nevertheless  he  contracted  no  great  stain  and  bore  no 
part  in  any  great  crime,  that  he  won  the  esteem  of  a prof- 
ligate Court  and  of  a turbulent  people,  without  being  guilty 
of  any  disgraceful  subserviency  to  either,  seems  to  be  very 
high  praise ; and  all  this  may  with  truth  be  said  of  Temple. 

Yet  Temple  is  not  a man  to  our  taste.  A temper  not 
naturally  good,  but  under  strict  command  ; a constant  re- 
gard to  decorum;  a rare  caution  in  playing  that  mixed 
game  of  skill  and  hazard,  human  life ; a disposition  to  be 
content  with  small  and  certain  winnings  rather  than  to  go 
on  doubling  the  stake  ; these  seem  to  us  to  be  the  most  re- 
markable features  of  his  character.  This  sort  of  moderation, 
when  united,  as  in  him  it  was,  with  very  considerate  abilities, 
is,  under  ordinary  circumstances,  scarcely  to  be  distinguished 
from  the  highest  and  purest  integrity,  and  yet  may  be  per- 
fectly compatible  with  laxity  of  principle,  with  coldness  of 
heart,  and  with  the  most  intense  selfishness.  Temple,  we 
fear,  had  not  sufficient  warmth  and  elevation  of  sentiment 
to  deserve  the  name  of  a virtuous  man.  He  did  not  betray 
or  oppress  his  country  : nay,  he  rendered  considerable  ser- 
vices to  her  ; but  he  risked  nothing  for  her.  No  temptation 
which  either  the  King  or  the  Opposition  could  hold  out  ever 
induced  him  to  come  forward  as  the  supporter  either  of 
arbitrary  or  of  factious  measures.  But  he  was  most  careful 
not  to  give  offence  by  strenuously  opposing  such  measures. 
He  never  put  himself  prominently  before  the  public  eye, 
except  at  conjunctures  when  he  was  almost  certain  to  gain  and 
could  not  possibly  lose,  at  conjunctures  when  the  interest  of 
the  State,  the  views  of  the  Court,  and  the  passions  of  the 
multitude,  all  appeared  for  an  instant  to  coincide.  By 
judiciously  availing  himself  of  several  of  these  rare  moments, 
lie  succeeded  in  establishing  a high  character  for  wisdom 
.and  patriotism.  When  the  favorable  crisis  was  passed,  he 
never  risked  the  reputation  which  he  had  won.  He  avoided 
the  great  offices  of  State  with  a caution  almost  pusillanimous, 
and  confined  himself  to  quiet  and  secluded  departments  of 
public  business,  in  which  he  could  enjoy  moderate  but  cer- 
tain advantages  without  incurring  envy.  If  the  circum- 
stances of  the  country  became  such  that  it  was  impossible 
to  take  any  part  in  politics  without  some  danger,  he  retired 
to  his  library  and  his  orchard,  and,  while  the  nation  groaned 
under  oppression,  or  resounded  with  tumult  and  with  the 
Vol.  II.— 17 


258 


MACAULAY  S MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


din  of  civil  arms,  amused  himself  by  writing  memoirs  and 
tying  up  apricots.  His  political  career  bore  some  resem- 
blance to  the  military  career  of  Lewis  the  Fourteenth. 
Lewis,  lest  his  royal  dignity  should  be  compromised  by 
failure,  never  repaired  to  a siege,  till  it  had  been  reported 
to  hint  by  the  most  skilful  officers  in  his  service,  that  nothing 
could  prevent  the  fall  of  the  place.  When  this  was  ascer- 
tained, the  monarch,  in  his  helmet  and  cuirass,  appeared 
among  the  tents,  held  councils  of  war,  dictated  the  c a pi  tula* 
tion,  received  the  keys,  and  then  returned  to  Versailles  to 
hear  his  flatterer0  *epent  that  Turenne  had  been  beaten  at 
Mariendal,  that  conde  had  been  forced  to  raise  the  siege  of 
Arras,  and  that  the  only  warrior  whose  glory  had  never 
been  obscured  by  a single  check  was  Lewis  the  Great.  Yet 
Conde  and  Turenne  will  always  be  considered  as  captains  of 
a very  different  order  from  the  invincible  Lewis ; and  we 
must  own  that  many  statesmen  who  have  committed  great 
faults,  appear  to  us  to  be  deserving  of  more  esteem  than  the 
faultless  Temple.  For  in  truth  his  faultlessness  is  chiefly  to 
be  ascribed  to  his  extreme  dread  of  all  responsibility,  to  his 
determination  rather  to  leave  his  country  in  a scrape  than 
to  run  any  chance  of  being  in  a scrape  himself.  He  seems 
to  have  been  averse  from  danger ; and  it  must  be  admitted 
that  the  dangers  to  which  a public  man  was  exposed,  in  those 
days  of  conflicting  tyranny  and  sedition,  were  of  the  most 
serious  kind.  He  could  not  bear  discomfort,  bodily  or 
mental.  His  lamentations  when,  in  the  course  of  his  diplo- 
matic journeys,  he  was  put  a little  out  of  his  way,  and  forced, 
in  the  vulgar  phrase,  to  rough  it,  are  quite  amusing.  He 
talks  of  riding  a day  or  two  on  a bad  Westphalian  road,  of 
sleeping  on  straw  for  one  night,  of  travelling  in  winter  when 
the  snow  lay  on  the  ground,  as  if  he  had  gone  on  an  ex- 
pedition to  the  North  Pole  or  to  the  source  of  the  Nile. 
This  kind  of  valetudinarian  effeminacy,  this  habit  of  coddling 
himself,  appears  in  all  parts  of  his  conduct.  He  loved  fame, 
but  not  with  the  love  of  an  exalted  and  generous  mind.  He 
loved  it  as  an  end,  not  at  all  as  a means ; as  a personal 
luxury,  not  at  all  as  an  instrument  of  advantage  to  others. 
He  scraped  it  together  and  treasured  it  up  with  a timid  and 
niggardly  thrift;  and  never  employed  the  hoard  in  any 
enterprise,  however  virtuous  and  useful,  in  which  there  was 
hazard  of  losing  one  particle.  No  wonder  if  such  a person 
did  little  or  nothing  which  deserves  positive  blame.  But 
much  more  than  this  may  justly  be  demanded  of  a man 


SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


259 


possessed  of  such  abilities,  and  placed  in  such  a situation. 
Had  Temple  been  brought  before  Dante’s  infernal  tribunal, 
he  would  not  have  been  condemned  to  the  deeper  recesses 
of  the  abyss.  He  would  not  have  been  boiled  with  Dundee 
in  the  crimson  pool  of  BulicamC,  or  hurled  with  Danby  int  j 
the  seething  pitch  of  Malebolge,  or  congealed  with  Churchill 
in  the  eternal  ice  of  Giudecca ; but  he  would  perhaps  have 
been  placed  in  the  dark  vestibule  next  to  the  shade  of  that 
inglorious  pontiff — 

M Che  fece  per  viltate  il  gran  rifluto.*9 

Of  course  a man  is  not  bound  to  be  a politician  any  more 
than  he  is  bound  to  be  a soldier;  and  thefe  are  perfectly 
honorable  ways  of  quitting  both  politics  and  the  military 
profession.  But  neither  in  the  one  way  of  life,  nor  in  the 
other,  is  any  man  entitled  to  take  all  the  sweet  and  leave 
all  the  sour.  A man  who  belongs  to  the  army  only  in 
time  of  peace,  who  appears  at  reviews  in  Hyde  Park,  escorts 
the  Sovereign  with  the  utmost  valor  and  fidelity  to  and 
from  the  House  of  Lords,  and  retires  as  soon  as  he  thinks  it 
likely  that  lie  may  be  ordered  on  an  expedition,  is  justly 
thought  to  have  disgraced  himself.  Some  portion  of  the 
censure  due  to  such  a holiday-soldier  may  justly  fall  on  the 
mere  holiday-politician,  who  flinches  from  his  duties  as  soon 
as  those  duties  become  difficult  and  disagreeable,  that  is  to 
say,  as  soon  as  it  becomes  peculiarly  important  that  he  should 
resolutely  perform  them. 

But  though  we  are  far  indeed  from  considering  Temple 
as  a perfect  statesman,  though  we  place  him  below  many 
statesmen  who  have  committed  very  great  errors,  we  can- 
not deny  that,  when  compared  with  his  contemporaries,  he 
makes  a highly  respectable  appearance.  The  reaction  which 
followed  the  victory  of  the  popular  party  over  Charles  tho 
First,  had  produced  a hurtful  effect  on  the  national  charac- 
ter ; and  this  effect  was  most  discernible  in  the  classes  and 
in  the  places  which  had  been  most  strongly  excited  by  the 
recent  revolution.  The  deterioration  was  greater  in  Lon- 
don than  in  the  country,  and  was  greatest  of  all  in  the 
courtly  and  official  circles.  Almost  all  that  remained  of 
what  had  been  good  and  noble  in  the  Cavaliers  and  Round- 
heads  of  1642,  was  now  to  be  found  in  the  middling  orders. 
The  principles  and  feelings  which  prompted  the  Grand  Remon- 
strance were  still  strong  among  the  sturdy  yeomen,  and  the 
Recent  God-fearing  merchants.  The  spirit  of  Derby  and 


250 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


Capel  still  glowed  in  many  sequestered  manor-houses  ; Lut 
among  those  political  leaders  who,  at  the  time  of  the  Resto- 
X'ation,  were  still  young  or  in  the  vigor  of  manhood,  there  was 
neither  a Southampton  nor  a Vane,  neither  a Falkland  nor 
a Hampden.  The  pure,  fervent,  and  constant  loyalty  which 
in  the  preceding  reign,  had  remained  unshaken  on  fields  of 
disastrous  battle,  in  foreign  garrets  and  cellars  and  at  the  bar 
of  the  High  Court  of  Justice,  was  scarcely  to  be  found  among 
the  rising  courtiers.  As  little,  or  still  less,  could  the  new  chiefs 
of  parties  lay  claim  to  the  great  qualities  of  the  statesmen 
who  had  stood  at  the  head  of  the  Long  Parliament.  Hamp- 
den, Fym,  Vane,  Cromwell,  are  discriminated  from  the 
ablest  politicians  of  the  succeeding  generation,  by  all  the 
strong  lineaments  which  distinguish  the  men  who  produce 
revolutions  from  the  men  whom  revolutions  produce.  The 
leader  in  a great  change,  the  man  who  stirs  up  a reposing 
community,  and  overthrows  a deeply-rooted  system,  may  be 
a very  depraved  man ; but  he  can  scarcely  be  destitute  of 
some  moral  qualities  which  extort  even  from  enemies  a re- 
luctant admiration,  fixedness  of  purpose,  intensity  of  will, 
enthusiasm,  which  is  not  the  less  fierce  or  persevering  be- 
cause it  is  sometimes  disguised  under  the  semblance  of  com- 
posure, and  which  bears  down  before  it  the  force  of  circum- 
stances and  the  opposition  of  reluctant  minds.  These  qual- 
ities, variously  combined  with  all  sorts  of  virtues  and  vices, 
may  be  found,  we  think,  in  most  of  the  authors  of  great 
civil  and  religious  movements,  in  Caesar,  in  Mahomet,  in 
Hildebrand,  in  Dominic,  in  Luther,  in  Robespierre ; and  these 
qualities  were  found,  in  no  scanty  measure,  among  the  chiefs 
of  the  party  which  opposed  diaries  the  First.  The  char- 
acter of  the  men  whose  minds  are  formed  in  the  midst  of 
the  confusion  which  follows  a great  revolution  is  generally 
very  different.  Heat,  the  natural  philosophers  tell  us,  pro- 
duces rarefaction  of  the  air;  and  rarefaction  of  the  air  pro- 
duces cold.  So  zeal  makes  revolutions;  and  revolutions 
make  men  zealous  for  nothing.  The  politicians  of  whom 
we  speak,  whatever  may  be  their  natural  capacity  or  cour- 
age, are  almost  always  characterized  by  a peculiar  levity,  a 
peculiar  inconsistency,  an  easy,  apathetic  way  of  looking  at 
the  most  solemn  questions,  a willingness  to  leave  the  direc- 
tion of  their  course  to  fortune  and  popular  opinion,  a notion 
that  one  public  cause  is  nearly  as  good  as  another,  and  a firm 
conviction  that  it  is  much  better  to  be  the  hireling  of  the 
worst  cause  than  to  be  a martyr  to  the  best. 


SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


261 


This  was  most  strikingly  the  case  with  the  English  states- 
men of  the  generation  which  followed  the  Restoration. 
They  had  neither  the  enthusiasm  of  the  Cavalier  nor  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  Republican.  They  had  been  early  eman- 
cipated from  the  dominion  of  old  usages  and  feelings  ; yet 
they  had  not  acquired  a strong  passion  for  innovation.  Ac- 
customed to  see  old  establishments  shaking,  falling,  lying  in 
ruins  all  around  them,  accustomed  to  live  under  a succes- 
sion of  constitutions  of  which  the  average  duration  was 
about  a twelvemonth,  they  had  no  religious  reverence  for 
prescription,  nothing  of  that  frame  of  mind  which  naturally 
springs  from  the  habitual  contemplation  of  immemorial  an- 
tiquity and  immovable  stability.  Accustomed,  on  the  other 
hand,  to  see  change  after  change  welcomed  with  eager  hope 
and  ending  in  disappointment,  to  see  shame  and  confusion 
of  face  follow  the  extravagant  hopes  and  predictions  of  rash 
and  fanatical  innovators,  they  had  learned  to  look  on  pro- 
fessions of  public  spirit,  and  on  schemes  of  reform,  with 
distrust  and  contempt.  They  sometimes  talked  the  language 
of  devoted  subjects,  sometimes  that  of  ardent  lovers  of  their 
country.  But  their  secret  creed  seems  to  have  been,  that 
loyalty  was  one  great  delusion,  and  patriotism  another.  If 
they  really  entertained  any  predilection  for  the  monarchical 
or  for  the  popular  part  of  the  constitution,  for  episcojiacy 
or  for  presbyterianism,  that  predilection  was  feeble  and  lan- 
guid, and  instead  of  overcoming,  as  in  the  times  of  their 
fathers,  the  dread  of  exile,  confiscation,  and  death,  was 
rarely  of  power  to  resist  the  slightest  impulse  of  selfish  am- 
bition or  of  selfish  fear.  Such  was  the  texture  of  the  pres- 
byterianism of  Lauderdale,  and  of  the  spculative  republi- 
canism of  Halifax.  The  sense  of  political  honor  seemed  to 
be  extinct.  With  the  great  mass  of  mankind,  the  test  of 
integrity  in  a public  man  is  consistency.  This  test,  though 
very  defective,  is  perhaps  the  best  that  any,  excej^t  very 
acute  or  very  near  observers,  are  capable  of  applying; 
and  does  undoubtedly  enable  the  people  to  form  an 
estimate  of  the  characters  of  the  great,  which,  on  the 
whole,  approximates  to  correctness.  But  during  the  latter 
part  of  the  seventeenth  century,  inconsistency  had  neces- 
sarily ceased  to  be  a disgrace  ; and  a man  was  no  more 
taunted  with  it,  than  he  is  taunted  with  being  black  at 
Timbuctoo.  Nobody  was  ashamed  of  avowing  what  was 
common  between  him  and  the  whole  nation.  In  the  short 
Space  of  about  seven  years,  the  supreme  power  had  been 


262  macaulat’s  miscellaneous  writings, 

held  by  the  Long  Parliament,  by  a Council  of  Officers,  by 
Barebones’  Parliament,  by  a Council  of  Officers  again,  by  a 
Protector  according  to  the  Instrument  of  Government,  by  a 
Protector  according  to  the  Humble  Petition  and  Advice,  by 
the  Long  Parliament  again,  by  a third  Council  of  Officers,  by 
the  Long  Parliament  a third  time,  by  the  Convention,  and 
by  the  King.  In  such  times,  consistency  is  so  inconvenient 
to  a man  who  affects  it,  and  to  all  who  are  connected  with 
him,  that  it  ceases  to  be  regarded  as  a virtue,  and  is  consid- 
ered as  impracticable  obstinacy  and  idle  scrupulosity.  1 1- 
deed,  in  such  times,  a good  citizen  may  be  bound  in  duty 
to  serve  a succession  of  Governments.  Blake  did  so  in  one 
profession  and  Hale  in  another ; and  the  conduct  of  both 
has  been  approved  by  posterity.  But  it  is  clear  that  when 
inconsistency  with  respect  to  the  most  important  public 
questions  has  ceased  to  be  a reproach,  inconsistency  with 
respect  to  questions  of  minor  importance  is  not  likely  to  be 
regarded  as  dishonorable.  In  a country  in  which  many  very 
honest  people  had,  within  the  space  of  a few  months,  sup- 
ported the  Government  of  the  Protector,  that  of  the  Rump, 
and  that  of  the  King,  a man  was  not  likely  to  be  ashamed  of 
abandoning  his  party  for  a place,  or  of  voting  for  a bill 
which  he  had  opposed. 

The  public  men  of  the  times  which  followed  the  Restore 
lion  were  by  no  means  deficient  in  courage  or  ability ; and 
some  kinds  of  talent  appear  to  have  been  developed  amongst 
them  to  a remarkable,  we  might  almost  say,  to  a morbid  and 
unnatural  degree.  Neither  Theramenes  in  ancient,  nor 
Talleyrand  in  modern  times,  had  a finer  perception  of  all 
the  peculiarities  of  character,  and  of  all  the  indications  of 
coming  change,  than  some  of  our  countrymen  in  that  age. 
Their  power  of  reading  things  of  high  import,  in  signs  which 
to  others  were  invisible  or  unintelligible,  resembled  magic. 
But  the  curse  of  Reuben  was  upon  them  all:  “ Unstable  as 
water,  thou  shalt  not  excel.” 

This  character  is  susceptible  of  innumerable  modifications* 
according  to  the  innumerable  varieties  of  intellect  and  tem- 
per in  which  it  may  be  found.  Men  of  unquiet  minds  and 
violent  ambition  followed  a fearfully  eccentric  course,  darted 
wildly  from  one  extreme  to  another,  served  and  betrayed 
all  parties  in  turn,  showed  their  unblushing  foreheads  alter- 
nately in  the  van  of  the  most  corrupt  administrations  and  of 
the  most  factious  oppositions,  were  privy  to  the  most  guilty 
mysteries,  first  of  (he  Cabal,  and  then  of  the  Rye-f|ous§ 


8 IK  WILLIAM  TEMPLE* 


263 


Plot,  abjured  their  religion  to  win  their  sovereign’s  favor 
while  they  were  secretly  planning  his  overthrow,  shrived 
themselves  to  Jesuits  with  letters  in  cipher  from  the  Prince 
of  Orange  in  their  pockets,  corresponded  with  the  Hague 
whilst  in  office  under  James,  and  began  to  correspond  with 
St.  Germain’s  as  soon  as  they  had  kissed  hands  for  office  un- 
der William.  But  Temple  was  not  one  of  these.  He  was 
not  destitute  of  ambition.  But  his  was  not  one  of  those 
souls  in  which  unsatisfied  ambition  anticipates  the  tortures 
of  hell,  gnaws  like  the  worm  which  dieth  not,  and  burns  like 
the  fire  which  is  not  quenched.  His  principle  was  to  make 
sure  of  safety  and  comfort,  and  to  let  greatness  come  if  it 
would.  It  came : he  enjoyed  it : and,  in  the  very  first  mo- 
ment in  which  it  could  no  longer  be  enjoyed  without  danger 
and  vexation,  he  contentedly  let  it  go.  He  was  not  exempt, 
we  think,  from  the  prevailing  political  immorality ? His 
mind  took  the  contagion,  but  took  it  ad  modum  recipientis , 
in  a form  so  mild  that  an  undiscerning  judge  might  doubt 
whether  it  were  indeed  the  same  fierce  pestilence  that  was 
raging  all  around.  The  malady  partook  of  the  constitu- 
tional languor  of  the  patient.  The  general  corruption,  miti- 
gated by  his  calm  and  unadventurous  temperament,  showed 
itself  in  omissions  and  desertions,  not  in  positive  crimes; 
and  his  inactivity,  though  sometimes  timorous  and  selfish, 
becomes  respectable  when  compared  with  the  malevolent 
and  perfidious  restlessness  of  Shaftesbury  and  Sunderland. 

Temple  sprang  from  a family  which,  though  ancient  and 
honorable,  had,  before  his  time,  been  scarcely  mentioned  in 
our  history,  but  which,  long  after  his  death,  produced  so 
many  eminent  men,  and  formed  such  distinguished  alliances, 
that  it  exercised,  in  a regular  and  constitutional  manner,  an 
influen  .e  in  the  state  scarcely  inferior  to  that  which,  in 
widely  different  times,  and  by  widely  different  arts,  the 
House  of  Neville  attained  in  England,  and  that  of  Douglas 
in  Scotland.  During  the  latter  years  of  George  the  Second, 
and  through  the  whole  reign  of  George  the  Third,  members 
of  that  wddely  spread  and  powerful  connection  were  almost 
constantly  at  the  head  either  of  the  Government  or  of  the 
Opposition.  There  were  times  when  the  cousinhood,  as  it 
was  once  nicknamed,  would  of  itself  have  furnished  almost 
all  the  materials  necessary  for  the  construction  of  an  effi- 
cient Cabinet.  Within  the  space  of  fifty  years,  three  First 
Lords  of  the  Treasury,  three  Secretaries  of  State,  twe 
Keepers  of  the  Privy  Seal,  and  four  first  Lords  of  the  Ad 


264  MAfAULAY*S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

miralty  were  appointed  from  among  the  sons  and  grandsons 
of  the  Countess  Temple. 

So  splendid  have  been  the  fortunes  of  the  main  stock  of 
the  Temple  family,  continued  by  female  succession.  Wil- 
liam Temple,  the  first  of  the  line  who  attained  to  any  his- 
torical eminence,  was  of  a younger  branch.  His  father,  Sir 
John  Temple,  was  Master  of  the  Rolls  in  Ireland,  and  dis- 
tinguished himself  among  the  Privy  Councillors  of  that 
kingdom  by  the  zeal  with  which,  at  the  commencement  of 
the  struggle  between  the  Crown  and  the  Long  Parliament, 
he  supported  the  popular  cause.  He  was  arrested  by  order 
of  the  Duke  of  Ormond,  but  regained  his  liberty  by  an  ex- 
change, repaired  to  England,  and  there  sate  in  the  House  of 
Commons  as  burgess  for  Chichester.  He  attached  himself 
to  the  Presbyterian  party,  and  was  one  of  those  moderate 
members  who,  at  the  close  of  the  year  1648,  voted  for  treat- 
ing with  Charles  on  the  basis  to  which  that  Prince  had  him- 
self agreed,  and  who  were,  in  consequence,  turned  out  of 
the  House,  with  small  ceremony,  by  Colonel  Pride.  Sir 
J ohn  seems,  however,  to  have  made  his  peace  with  the  vic- 
torious Independents ; for,  in  1658,  he  resumed  his  office  in 
Ireland. 

Sir  John  Temple  was  married  to  a sister  of  the  cele- 
brated Henry  Hammond,  a learned  and  pious  divine,  who 
took  the  side  of  the  King  with  very  conspicuous  zeal  during 
the  civil  war,  and  was  deprived  of  his  preferment  in  the 
church  after  the  victory  of  the  Parliament.  On  account  of 
the  loss  which  Hammond  sustained  on  this  occasion,  he  has 
the  honor  of  being  designated,  in  the  cant  of  that  new  brood 
of  Oxonian  sectaries  who  unite  the  worst  parts  of  the  Jesuit 
to  the  worst  parts  of  the  Orangeman,  as  Hammond,  Presby- 
ter, Doctor,  and  Confessor. 

William  Temple,  Sir  John’s  eldest  son,  was  born  in 
London  in  the  year  1628.  He  received  his  early  education 
under  his  maternal  uncle,  was  subsequently  sent  to  school 
at  Bishop-Stortford,  and,  at  seventeen,  began  to  reside  at 
Emmanuel  College,  Cambridge,  where  the  celebrated  Cud- 
worth  was  his  tutor.  The  times  were  not  favorable  to 
study.  The  Civil  War  disturbed  even  the  quiet  cloisters 
and  bowling-greens  of  Cambridge,  produced  violent  revolu- 
tions in  the  government  and  discipline  of  the  colleges,  and 
unsettled  the  minds  of  the  students.  Temple  forgot  at  Em- 
manuel all  the  little  Greek  which  he  had  brought  from  Bishop- 
Stortford,  and  never  retrieved  the  loss ; a circumstance 


SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


265 


which  would  hardly  be  worth  noticing  but  for  the  almost 
incredible  fact  that,  fifty  years  later,  he  was  so  absurd  as 
to  set  up  his  own  authority  against  that  of  Bentley  on  ques- 
tions of  Greek  history  and  philology.  He  made  no  profi- 
ciency either  in  the  old  philosophy  which  still  lingered  in  the 
schools  of  Cambridge,  or  in  the  new  philosophy  of  which 
Lord  Bacon  was  the  founder.  But  to  the  end  of  his  life  he 
continued  to  speak  of  the  former  with  ignorant  admiration, 
and  of  the  latter  with  equally  ignorant  contempt. 

After  residing  at  Cambridge  two  years,  he  departed  with- 
out taking  a degree,  and  set  out  upon  his  travels.  He  seems 
to  have  been  then  a lively*  agreeable  young  man  of  fashion, 
not  by  any  means  deeply  read,  but  versed  in  all  the  super- 
ficial accomplishments  of  a gentleman,  and  acceptable  in  all 
polite  societies.  In  politics  he  professed  himself  a Royalist. 
His  opinions  on  religious  subjects  seem  to  have  been  such 
as  might  be  expected  from  a young  man  of  quick  parts,  who 
had  received  a rambling  education,  who  had  not  thought 
deeply,  who  had  been  disgusted  by  the  morose  austerity  of 
the  Puritans,  and  who,  surrounded  from  childhood  by  the 
hubbub  of  conflicting  sects,  might  easily  learn  to  feel  an 
impartial  contempt  for  them  all. 

On  his  road  to  France  he  fell  in  with  the  son  and 
daughter  of  Sir  Peter  Osborne.  Sir  Peter  held  Guernsey 
for  the  King,  and  the  young  people  wore,  like  their  father, 
warm  for  the  royal  cause.  At  an  inn  where  they  stopped  in 
the  Isle  of  Wight,  the  brother  amused  himself  with  inscrib- 
ing on  the  windows  his  opinion  of  the  ruling  powers.  For 
this  instance  of  malignancy  the  whole  party  were  arrested, 
and  brought  before  the  governor.  The  sister,  trusting  to 
the  tenderness  which,  even  in  those  troubled  times  scarcely 
any  gentleman  of  any  party  ever  failed  to  show  where  a 
woman  was  concerned,  took  the  crime  on  herself,  and  was 
immediately  set  at  liberty  with  her  follow-travellers. 

This  incident,  as  was  natural,  made  a deep  impression 
cn  Temple.  He  was  only  twenty.  Dorothy  Osborne  was 
twenty-one.  She  is  said  to  have  been  handsome  ; and  there 
remains  abundant  proof  that  she  possessed  an  ample  share 
of  the  dexterity,  the  vivacity,  and  the  tenderness  of  her  sex. 
Temple  soon  became,  in  the  phrase  of  that  time,  her  servant, 
and  she  returned  his  regard.  But  difficulties,  as  great  as 
ever  expanded  a novel  to  the  fifth  volume,  opposed  their 
wishes.  When  the  courtship  commenced,  the  father  of  the 
hero  was  sitting  in  the  Long  Parliament ; the  father  of  the 


266  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

heroine  was  commanding  in  Guernsey  for  King  Charles. 
Even  when  the  war  ended,  and  Sir  Peter  Osborne  returned 
to  his  seat  at  Chicksands,  the  prospect  of  the  lovers  were 
scarcely  less  gloomy.  Sir  John  Temple  had  a more  advan- 
tageous alliance  in  view  for  his  son.  Dorothy  Osborne  was 
in  the  mean  time  besieged  by  as  many  suitors  as  were  drawn 
to  Belmont  by  the  fame  of  Portia.  The  most  distinguished 
on  the  list  was  Henry  Cromwell.  Destitute  of  the  capacity, 
the  energy,  the  magnanimity  of  his  illustrious  father,  desti- 
tute also  of  the  meek  and  placid  virtues  of  his  elder  brother, 
this  young  man  was  perhaps  a more  formidable  rival  in  love 
than  either  of  them  would  have  been.  Mrs.  Hutchinson, 
speaking  the  sentiments  of  the  grave  and  aged,  describes 
him  as  an  “ insolent  foole,”  and  a “ debauched  ungodly  cava- 
lier.” These  expressions  probably  mean  that  he  was  one  who, 
among  young  and  dissipated  people,  would  pass  for  a fine 
gentleman.  Dorothy  was  fond  of  dogs  of  larger  and  more 
formidable  breed  than  those  which  lie  on  modern  hearth 
rugs ; and  Henry  Cromwell  promised  that  the  highest  func- 
tionaries at  Dublin  should  be  set  to  work  to  procure  her  a 
fine  Irish  greyhound.  She  seems  to  have  felt  his  attentions 
as  very  flattering,  though  his  father  was  then  only  Lord- 
General,  and  not  yet  Protector.  Love,  however,  triumphed 
over  ambition,  and  the  young  lady  appears  never  to  have 
regretted  her  decision  ; though,  in  a letter  written  just  at 
the  time  when  all  England  was  ringing  with  the  news  of 
the  violent  dissolution  of  the  Long  Parliament,  she  could  not 
refrain  from  reminding  Temple,  with  pardonable  vanity, 
“ how  great  she  might  have  been,  if  she  had  been  so  wise  as 
to  have  taken  hold  of  the  offer  of  H.  C.” 

Nor  was  it  only  the  influence  of  rivals  that  Temple  had 
to  dread.  The  relations  of  his  mistress  regarded  him  with 
personal  dislike,  and  spoke  of  him  as  an  unprincipled  ad- 
venturer, without  honor  or  religion,  ready  to  render  service 
to  any  party  for  the  sake  of  preferment.  This  is,  indeed,  a 
very  distorted  view  of  Temple’s  character.  Yet  a character, 
even  in  the  most  distorted  view  taken  of  it  by  the  most 
angry  and  prejudiced  minds,  generally  retains  something  of 
its  outline.  No  caricaturist  ever  represented  Mr.  Pitt  as  a 
Falstaff,  or  Mr.  Fox  as  a skeleton ; nor  did  any  libeller  ever 
impute  parsimony  to  Sheridan,  or  profusion  to  Marlborough. 
It  must  be  allowed  that  the  turn  of  mind  which  the  eulo- 
gists of  Temple  have  dignified  with  the  appellation  of  phil- 
osophical indifference,  and  which,  however  becoming  it  may 


BTft  WlttlAM  TfcM^LE. 


201 

be  in  an  old  and  experienced  statesman,  has  a somewhat  un 
graceful  appearance  in  youth,  might  easily  appear  shocking 
to  a family  who  were  ready  to  fight  or  to  suffer  martyrdom 
for  their  exiled  King  and  their  persecuted  church.  The  poor 
girl  was  exceedingly  hurt  and  irritated  by  these  imputations 
on  her  lover,  defended  him  warmly  behind  his  back,  and  ad- 
dressed to  himself  some  very  tender  and  anxious  admoni- 
tions, mingled  with  assurances  of  her  confidence  in  his  honor 
and  virtue.  On  one  occasion  she  was  most  highly  provoked 
by  the  way  in  which  one  of  her  brothers  spoke  of  Temple. 
u We  talked  ourselves  weary,”  she  says  ; “ he  renounced  me, 
and  I defied  him.” 

Kear  seven  years  did  this  arduous  wooing  continue. 
We  are  not  accurately  informed  respecting  Temple’s  move- 
ments during  that  time.  But  he  seems  to  have  led  a 
rambling  life,  sometimes  on  the  Continent,  sometimes  in 
Ireland,  sometimes  in  London.  He  made  himself  master 
of  the  French  and  Spanish  languages,  and  amused  himself 
by  writing  essays  and  romances,  an  employment  which  at 
last  served  the  purpose  of  forming  his  style.  The  specimen 
which  Mr.  Courtenay  has  preserved  of  these  early  composi- 
tions is  one  by  no  means  contemptible  : indeed,  there  is  one 
passage  on  Like  and  Dislike  which  could  have  been  produced 
only  by  a mind  habituated  carefully  to  reflect  on  its  own 
operations,  and  which  reminds  us  of  the  best  things  in  Mon- 
taigne. 

Temple  appears  to  have  kept  up  a very  active  correspon- 
dence with  his  mistress.  His  letters  are  lost,  but  hers  have 
been  preserved ; and  many  of  them  appear  in  these  vol- 
umes. Mr.  Courtenay  expresses  some  doubt  whether  his 
readers  will  think  him  justified  in  inserting  so  large  a num- 
ber of  these  epistles.  We  only  wish  that  there  were  twice 
as  many.  Very  little  indeed  of  the  diplomatic  correspon- 
dence of  that  generation  is  so  well  worth  reading.  There  is 
a vile  phrase  of  which  bad  historians  are  exceedingly  fond, 
Cithe  dignity  of  history.”  One  waiter  is  in  possession  of 
some  anecdotes  which  would  illustrate  most  strikingly  the 
operation  of  the  Mississippi  scheme  on  the  manners  and 
morals  of  the  Parisians.  But  he  suppresses  those  anecdotes, 
because  they  are  too  low  for  the  dignity  of  history.  Another 
is  strongly  tempted  to  mention  some  facts  indicating  the 
horrible  state  of  the  prisons  of  England  two  hundred  years 
ago.  But  he  hardly  thinks  that  the  sufferings  of  a dozen 
felons,  pigging  together  on  bare  bricks  in  a hole  fifteen  feet 


268  Macaulay*s  miscellaneous  writing^. 

square,  would  form  a subject  suited  to  the  dignity  of  history 
Another,  from  respect  for  the  dignity  of  history,  publishes 
an  account  of  the  reign  of  George  the  Second,  without  ever 
mentioning  Wliitefield’s  preaching  in  Moorfields.  How 
should  a writer,  who  can  talk  about  senates,  and  congresses 
of  sovereigns,  and  pragmatic  sanctions,  and  ravelines,  and 
counterscarps,  and  battles  where  ten  thousand  men  are 
killed,  and  six  thousand  men  with  fifty  stand  of  colors  and 
eighty  guns  taken,  stoop  to  the  Stock-Exchange,  to  Newgate, 
to  the  theatre,  to  the  tabernacle? 

Tragedy  has  its  dignity  as  well  as  history;  and  how 
much  the  tragic  art  has  owed  to  that  dignity  any  man  may 
judge  who  will  compare  the  majestic  Alexandrines  in  which 
the  Seigneur  Orcste  and  Madame  Andromaque  utter  their 
complaints  with  the  chattering  of  the  fool  in  Lear  and  of  the 
nurse  in  Romeo  and  Juliet. 

That  a historian  should  not  record  trifles,  that  he  should 
confine  himself  to  what  is  important,  is  perfectly  true.  But 
many  writers  seem  never  to  have  considered  on  what  the 
historical  importance  of  an  event  depends.  They  seem  not 
to  be  aware  that  the  importance  of  a fact,  when  that  fact  is 
considered  with  reference  to  its  immediate  effects,  and  the 
importance  of  the  same  fact,  when  that  fact  is  considered  as 
part  of  the  materials  for  the  construction  of  a science,  are  two* 
very  different  things.  The  quantity  of  good  or  evil  which  a 
transaction  produces  is  by  no  means  necessarily  proportioned 
to  the  quantity  of  light  which  that  transaction  affords,  as  to 
the  way  in  which  good  or  evil  may  hereafter  be  produced. 
The  poisoning  of  an  emperor  is  in  one  sense  a far  more 
serious  matter  than  the  poisoning  of  a rat.  But  the  poisoning 
of  a rat  may  be  an  era  in  chemistry ; and  an  emperor  may  be 
poisoned  by  such  ordinary  means  and  with  such  ordinary 
symptoms,  that  no  scientific  journal  would  notice  the  occur- 
rence. An  action  for  a hundred  thousand  pounds  is  in  c ne 
sense  a more  momentous  affair  than  an  action  for  fifty  pounds. 
But  it  by  no  means  follows  that  the  learned  gentlemen  who 
report  the  proceedings  of  the  courts  of  law  ought  to  give  a 
fuller  account  of  an  action  for  a hundred  thousand  pounds, 
than  of  an  action  for  fifty  pounds.  For  a cause  in  which  a 
large  sum  is  at  stake,  maybe  important  only  to  the  particular 
plaintiff  and  the  particular  defendant.  A cause,  on  the  other 
hand,  in  which  a small  sum  is  at  stake,  may  establish  some 
great  principle  interesting  to  half  the  families  in  the  king-, 
doin.  The  case  is  exactly  the  same  with  that  class  of  sub 


STE  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


269 


jects  of  which  historians  treat.  To  an  Athenian,  in  the  time 
of  the  Peloponnesian  war,  the  result  of  the  battle  of  Delium 
was  far  more  important  than  the  fate  of  the  comedy  of  The 
Knights.  But  to  us  the  fact  that  the  comedy  of  The  Knights 
was  brought  on  the  Athenian  stage  with  success  is  far  more 
important  than  the  fact  that  the  Athenian  phalanx  gave 
way  to  Delium.  Neither  the  one  event  nor  the  other  has 
now  any  intrinsic  importance.  We  are  in  no  danger  of 
being  speared  by  the  Thebans.  W e are  not  quizzed  in  The? 
Knigats.  To  us  the  importance  of  both  events  consists  in 
the  value  of  the  general  truth  which  is  to  be  learned  from 
them.  What  general  truth  do  we  learn  from  their  accounts 
which  have  come  down  to  us  of  the  battle  of  Delium  ? Very 
little  more  than  this,  that  wThen  two  armies  fight,  it  is  not  im- 
probable that  one  of  them  will  be  very  soundly  beaten,  a truth 
which  it  would  not,  we  apprehend,  be  difficult  to  establish, 
even  if  all  memory  of  the  battle  of  Delium  were  lost  among 
men.  But  a man  who  becomes  acquainted  with  the  comedy 
of  The  Knights,  and  with  the  history  of  that  comedy,  at 
once  feels  his  mind  enlarged.  Society  is  presented  to  him 
under  a new  aspect.  He  may  have  read  and  travelled  much. 
He  may  have  visited  all  the  countries  of  Europe,  and  the 
civilized  nations  of  the  East.  He  may  have  observed  the 
manners  of  many  barbarous  races.  But  here  is  something  al- 
together different  from  everything  which  he  has  seen,  either 
among  polished  men  or  among  savages.  Here  is  a commu- 
nity politically,  intellectually,  and  morally  unlike  any  other 
community  of  which  he  has  the  means  of  forming  an  opin- 
ion. This  is  the  really  precious  part  of  history,  the  corn 
which  some  threshers  carefully  sever  from  the  chaff,  for  the 
purpose  of  gathering  the  chaff  into  the  garner,  and  flinging  the 
corn  into  the  fire. 

Thinking  thus,  we  are  glad  to  learn  so  much,  and  would 
willingly  learn  more,  about  the  loves  of  Sir  William  and  his 
mistress.  In  the  seventeenth  century,  to  be  sure,  Lewis  the 
Fourteenth  was  a much  more  important  person  than  Temple’s 
sweetheart.  But  death  and  time  equalize  all  things.  Neither 
the  great  King,  nor  the  beauty  of  Bedfordshire,  neither  the 
gorgeous  paradise  of  Marli  nor  Mistress  Osborne’s  favorite 
walk  “ in  the  common  that  lay  hard  by  the  house,  where  a 
great  many  yc  ung  wenches  used  to  keep  sheep  and  cowts  and 
sit  in  the  shade  singing  of  ballads,”  is  anything  to  us.  Lewis 
and  Dorothy  are  alike  dust.  A cotton-mill  stands  on  the  ruins 
of  Marli ; and  the  Osbornes  have  ceased  to  dwell  under  the 


270 


MAOAtTLAY’s  MlSClSLlANiCOUS  ‘WHITINGSi 


ancient  roof  of  Chicksands.  But  of  that,  information,  for  the 
6ake  of  which  alone  it  is  worth  while  to  study  remote  events, 
we  find  so  much  in  the  love  letters  which  Mr.  Courtenay 
has  published,  that  avc  would  gladly  purchase  equally  inter- 
esting bille's  with  ten  times  their  weight  in  state-papers 
taken  at  random.  To  us  surely  it  is  as  useful  to  know  liow 
the  young  ladies  of  England  employed  themselves  a hundred 
and  eighty  years  ago,  how  far  their  minds  were  cultivated, 
what  were  their  favorite  studies,  what  degree  of  liberty 
was  allowed  to  them,  what  use  they  made  of  that  liberty, 
what  accomplishments  they  most  valued  in  men,  and  what 
proofs  of  tenderness  delicacy  permitted  them  to  give  to  fa- 
vored suitors,  as  to  know  all  about  the  seizure  of  Franche 
Comte  and  the  treaty  of  Nimeguen.  The  mutual  relations 
of  the  two  sexes  seems  to  us  to  be  at  least  as  important  as 
the  mutual  relations  of  any  two  governments  in  the  world  ; 
and  a series  of  letters  written  by  a virtuous,  amiable,  and 
sensible  girl,  and  intended  for  the  eye  of  her  lover  alone,  can 
scarcely  fail  to  throw  some  light  on  the  relations  of  the  sexes  ; 
whereas  it  is  perfectly  possible,  as  all  who  have  made  any 
historical  researches  can  attest,  to  read  bale  after  bale  of 
despatches  and  protocols  without  catching  one  glimpse  of 
light  about  the  relations  of  governments. 

Mr.  Courtenay  proclaims  that  he  is  one  of  Dorothy  Os- 
borne’s devoted  servants,  and  expresses  a hope  that  the 
publication  of  her  letters  will  add  to  the  number.  We  must 
declare  ourselves  his  rivals.  She  really  seems  to  have  beena 
very  charming  young  woman,  modest,  generous,  affectionate, 
intelligent,  and  sprightly ; a royalist,  as  was  to  be  expected 
from  her  connections,  without  any  of  that  political  asperity 
which  is  as  unwomanly  as  a long  beard  ; religious,  and 
occasionally  gliding  into  a very  pretty  and  endearing  sort 
of  preaching,  yet  not  too  good  to  partake  of  such  diversions 
as  London  afforded  under  the  melancholy  rule  of  the  Puri- 
tans, or  to  giggle  a little  at  a ridiculous  sermon  from  a divine 
who  was  thought  to  be  one  of  the  great  lights  of  the  Assem- 
bly at  Westminster ; with  a little  turn  for  coquetry,  which 
was  yet  perfectly  compatible  with  warm  and  disinterested 
attachment,  and  a little  turn  for  satire,  which  yet  seldom 
passed  the  bounds  of  good-nature.  She  loved  reading ; but 
her  studies  were  not  those  of  Queen  Elizabeth  and  Lady 
Jane  Grey.  She  read  the  verses  of  Cowley  and  Lord 
Broghill,  French  Memoirs  recommended  by  her  lover,  and 
the  travels  of  Fernando  Mendez  Pinto.  But  her  favorite 


SIK  WILLIAM  TEMPLE.  271 

books  were  those  ponderous  French  romances  which  modern 
readers  know  chiefly  from  the  pleasant  satire  of  Charlotte 
Lennox.  She  could  not,  however,  help  laughing  at  the  vile 
English  into  which  they  were  translated.  Her  own  style  is 
very  agreeable  ; nor  are  her  letters  at  all  the  worse  for  some 
passages  in  which  raillery  and  tenderness  are  mixed  in  a very 
engaging  namby-pamby. 

When  at  last  the  constancy  of  the  lovers  had  triumphed 
over  all  the  obstacles  which  kinsmen  and  rivals  could 
oppose  to  their  union,  a yet  more  serious  calamity  befell 
them.  Poor  Mistress  Osborne  fell  ill  of  the  small-pox,  and, 
though  she  escaped  with  life,  lost  all  her  beauty.  To  this 
most  severe  trial  the  affection  and  honor  of  the  loyers  of 
that  age  was  not  unfrequently  subjected.  Our  readers 
probably  remember  what  Mrs.  Hutchinson  tells  us  of  her- 
self. The  lofty  Cornelia-like  spirit  of  the  aged  matron  seems 
to  melt  into  a long  forgotten  softness  when  she  relates  how 
her  beloved  Colonel  married  her  as  soon  as  she  w^as  able 
to  quit  the  chamber,  when  the  priest  and  all  that  saw  her 
were  affrighted  to  look  on  her.  But  God,”  she  adds,  with  a 
not  ungraceful  vanity,  44  recompensed  his  justice  and  con- 
stancy, byrestoring  her  as  wTell  as  before.”  Temple  showed 
on  this  occasion  the  same  justice  and  constancy  which  did 
so  much  honor  to  Colonel  Hutchinson.  The  date  of  the 
marriage  is  not  exactly  known.  But  Mr.  Courtenay  sup- 
poses it  to  have  taken  place  about  the  end  of  the  year  1654. 
From  this  time  we  lose  sight  of  Dorothy,  and  are  reduced  to 
form  our  opinion  of  the  terms  on  which  she  and  her  husband 
were  from  very  slight  indications  wThich  may  easly  mislead  us. 

Temple  soon  went  to  Ireland,  and  resided  with  his  father* 
partly  at  Dublin,  partly  in  the  county  of  Carlowr.  Ireland 
was  probably  then  a more  agreeable  residence  for  the  higher 
classes  as  compared  with  England,  than  it  has  ever  been  be* 
fore  or  since..  In  no  part  of  the  empire  were  the  superiority 
of  Cromwell’s  abilities  and  the  force  of  his  character  so 
signally  displayed.  He  had  not  the  power,  and  piobably 
had  not  the  inclination,  to  govern  that  island  in  the  best 
way.  The  rebellion  of  the  aboriginal  race  had  excited  in 
England  a strong  religious  and  national  aversion  to  them  ; 
nor  is  there  any  reason  to  believe  that  the  Protector  was  so 
far  beyond  his  age  as  to  be  free  from  the  prevailing  senti- 
ment. He  had  vanquished  them ; he  knew  that  they  were 
in  his  power  ; and  he  regarded  them  as  a band  of  malefactors 
and  idolaters,  who  were  mercifully  treated  if  they  were  not 


272  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

smitten  with  the  edge  of  the  sword.  On  those  who  resisted 
he  had  made  war  as  the  Hebrews  made  war  on  the  Canaan- 
ites.  Drogheda  was  as  Jericho  ; and  Wexford  as  Ai.  To 
the  remains  of  the  old  population  the  conqueror  granted  a 

i>eace,  such  as  that  which  Israel  granted  to  the  Gib(  onites. 
le  made  them  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water.  But, 
good  or  bad,  he  could  not  be  otherwise  than  great.  Under 
favorable  circumstances,  Ireland  would  have  found  in  him  a 
most  just  and  beneficent  ruler.  She  found  in  him  a tyrant ; 
not  a small  teasing  tyrant,  such  as  those  who  have  so  long 
been  her  curse  and  her  shame,  but  one  of  those  awful  tyrants 
who,  at  long  intervals,  seem  to  be  sent  on  earth,  like  avenging 
angels,  with  some  high  commission  of  destruction  and  reno? 
vation.  He  was  no  man  of  half  measures,  of  mean  affronts 
and  ungracious  concessions.  His  Protestant  ascendency  was 
not  an  ascendency  of  ribands,  and  fiddles,  and  statues  and 
processions.  He  would  never  have  dreamed  of  abolishing 
the  penal  code  and  withholding  from  Catholics  the  elective 
franchise,  of  giving  them  the  elective  franchise  and  exclud- 
ing them  from  Parliament,  of  admitting  them  to  Parlia- 
ment, and  refusing  to  them  a full  and  equal  participation 
in  all  the  blessings  of  society  and  government.  The  thing 
most  alien  from  his  clear  intellect  and  his  commanding 
spirit  was  petty  persecution.  He  knew  how  to  tolerate  ; 
and  he  knew  how  to  destroy.  His  administration  in  Ireland 
was  an  administration  on  what  are  now  called  Orange  princi- 
ples, followed  out  most  ably,  most  steadily,  most  undauntedly, 
most  unrelentingly,  to  every  extreme  consequence  to  which 
those  principles  lead ; and  it  would,  if  continued,  inevitably 
have  produced  the  effect  which  he  contemplated,  an  entire  do- 
composition  and  reconstruction  of  society.  He  had  a great 
and  definite  object  in  view,  to  make  Ireland  thoroughly  Eng- 
lish, to  make  Ireland  another  Yorkshire  or  Norfolk.  Thinly 
peopled  as  Ireland  then  was,  this  end  was  not  unattainable ; 
and  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  that,  if  his  policy  had 
been  followed  during  fifty  years  this  end  would  have  been 
attained.  Instead  of  an  emigration,  such  as  we  now  see  from 
Ireland  to  England,  there  was  under  his  government,  a con- 
stant and  large  emigration  from  England  to  Ireland.  This 
tide  of  population  ran  almost  as  strongly  as  that  which  now 
runs  from  Massachusetts  and  Connecticut  to  the  states  be- 
hind the  Ohio.  The  native  race  wras  driven  back  before  the 
advancing  van  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  population,  as  the  Ameri- 
can Indians  or  the  tribes  of  Southern  Africa  are  now  driven 


SIR  WfLLIAM  TEMPLE. 


273 


back  before  the  white  settlers.  Those  fearful  phenomena 
which  have  almost  invariably  attended  the  planting  of  civil- 
ized colonies  in  uncivilized  countries,  and  which  had  been 
known  to  the  nations  of  Europe  only  by  distant  and  ques- 
tionable rumor,  were  now  publicly  exhibited  in  their  sight. 
The  words,  “ extirpation,”  “ eradication,”  were  often  in  the 
mouths  cf  the  English  back-settlers  of  Leinster  and  Munster, 
cruel  words,  yet,  in  their  cruelty,  containing  more  mercy 
than  much  softer  expressions  which  have  since  been  sanc- 
t ionedby  universities  and  cheered  by  Parliaments.  For  it 
is  in  truth  more  merciful  to  extirpate  a hundred  thousand 
human  beings  at  once,  and  to  fill  the  void  with  a well-gov- 
erned population,  then  to  migovern  millions  through  a long 
succession  of  generations.  We  can  much  more  easily  pardon 
tremendous  severities  inflicted  for  a great  object,  than  an 
endless  series  of  paltry  vexations  and  oppressions  inflicted 
for  no  rational  object  at  all. 

Ireland  was  fast  becoming  English.  Civilization  and 
wealth  were  making  rapid  progress  in  almost  every  part  of 
the  island.  The  effects  of  that  iron  despotism  are  described 
to  us  by  a hostile  witness  in  very  remarkable  language. 
“ Which  is  more  wonderful,”  says  Lord  Clarendon,  “ all 
this  was  done  and  settled  within  little  more  than  two  years, 
to  that  degree  of  perfection  that  there  were  many  buildings 
raised  for  beauty  as  well  as  use,  orderly  and  regular  planta- 
tions of  trees,  and  fences  and  inclosures  raised  throughout 
the  kingdom,  purchases  made  by  one  from  another  at  very 
valuable  rates,  and  jointures  made  upon  marriages,  and  all 
other  conveyances  and  settlements  executed,  as  in  a king- 
dom at  peace  within  itself,  and  where  no  doubt  could  be 
made  of  the  validity  of  titles.” 

All  Temple’s  feelings  about  Irish  questions  were  those  of 
a colonist  and  a member  of  the  dominant  caste.  He  troubled 
himself  as  little  about  the  welfare  of  the  remains  of  the  old 
Celtic  population,  as  an  English  farmer  on  the  Swan  River 
troubles  himself  about  the  Hew  Hollanders,  or  a Dutch  boor 
at  the  Cape  about  the  Caffres.  The  years  which  he  passed 
in  Ireland,  while  the  Cromwellian  system  was  in  full  oper- 
ation, he  always  described  as  “ years  of  great  satisfaction.” 
Farming,  gardening,  county  business,  and  studies  rather  en- 
tertaining than  profound,  occupied  his  time.  In  politics  he 
took  no  part,  and  many  years  later  he  attributed  this  inac- 
tion to  his  love  of  the  ancient  constitution,  which,  he  said, 
4‘  would  not  suffer  him  to  enter  into  public  affairs  till  the 
Vol.  IL— 18 


274 


macaulay's  miscellaneous  wRiTiNas. 


way  was  plain  for  the  King’s  happy  restoration/’  It  does 
not  appear,  indeed,  that  any  offer  of  employment  was  made 
to  him.  If  he  really  did  refuse  any  preferment,  we  may, 
without  much  breach  of  charity,  attribute  the  refusal  rather 
to  the  caution  which,  during  his  whole  life,  prevented  him 
from  running  any  risk,  than  to  the  fervor  of  his  loyalty. 

In  1660  he  made  his  first  appearance  in  public  life.  lie 
sat  in  the  convention  which,  in  the  midst  of  the  genera* 
confusion  that  preceded  the  Restoration,  was  summoned  by 
the  chiefs  of  the  army  of  Ireland  to  meet  in  Dublin.  After 
the  King’s  return  an  Irish  parliament  was  regularly  con- 
voked, in  which  Temple  represented  the  county  of  Carlow. 
The  details  of  his  conduct  in  this  situation  are  not  known 
to  us.  But  we  are  told  in  general  terms,  and  can  easily  be- 
lieve, that  he  showed  great  moderation,  and  great  aptitude 
for  business.  It  is  probable  that  he  also  distinguished  him- 
self in  debate  ; for  many  years  afterwards  he  remarked  that 
“ his  friends  in  Ireland  used  to  think  that,  if  he  had  any 
talent  at  all,  it  lay  in  that  way.” 

In  May,  1663,  the  Irish  parliament  was  prorogued,  and 
Temple  repaired  to  England  with  his  wife.  His  income 
amounted  to  about  five  hundred  pounds  a year,  a sum  which 
was  then  sufficient  for  the  wants  of  a family  mixing  in 
fashionable  circles.  He  passed  two  years  in  London,  where 
he  seems  to  have  led  that  easy,  lounging  life  which  was 
best  suited  to  his  temper. 

He  was  not,  however,  unmindful  of  his  interest.  He 
had  brought  with  him  letters  of  introduction  from  the  Duke 
of  Ormond,  then  Lord-Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  to  Clarendon, 
and  to  Henry  Bennet,  Lord  Arlington,  who  was  Secretary 
of  State.  Clarendon  was  at  the  head  of  affairs.  But  his 
power  was  visibly  declining,  and  was  certain  to  decline 
more  and  more  every  day.  An  observer  much  less  discern- 
ing than  Temple  might  easily  perceive  that  the  Chancellor 
was  a man  who  belonged  to  a by-gone  world,  a represen- 
tative of  a past  age,  of  obsolete  modes  of  thinking,  of  un- 
fashionable vices,  and  of  more  unfashionable  virtues.  His 
long  exile  had  made  him  a stranger  in  the  country  of  his 
birth.  His  mind,  heated  by  conflict  and  by  personal  suffer- 
ing, was  far  more  set  against  popular  and  tolerant  courses 
than  it  had  been  at  the  time  of  the  breaking  out  of  the  civil 
war.  He  pined  for  the  decorous  tyranny  of  the  old  White- 
hall ; for  the  days  of  that  sainted  king  who  deprived  his 
people  of  their  money  and  their  ears,  but  let  their  wives  and 


j-fta 


Bttt  WtttUM  TSMM, 


2?  5 


daughters  alone  ; and  could  scarcely  reconcile  himself  to  a 
court  with  a seraglio  and  without  a Star-Chamber,  By 
taking  this  course  he  made  himself  every  day  more  odious, 
both  to  the  sovereign,  who  loved  pleasure  much  more  than 
prerogative,  and  to  the  people,  who  dreaded  royal  preroga- 
tives much  more  than  royal  pleasures  ; and  thus  he  was  at 
last  more  detested  by  the  Court  than  any  chief  of  the 
Opposition,  and  more  detested  by  the  Parliament  than  any 
pandar  of  the  Court. 

Temple,  whose  great  maxim  was  to  defend  no  party,  was 
not  likely  to  cling  to  the  falling  fortunes  of  a minister  the 
study  of  whose  life  was  to  offend  all  parties.  Arlington, 
whose  influence  was  gradually  rising  as  that  of  Clarendon 
diminished,  was  the  most  useful  patron  to  whom  a young 
adventurer  could  attach  himself.  This  statesman,  without 
virtue,  wisdom,  or  strength  of  mind,  had  raised  himself  to 
greatness  by  superficial  qualities,  and  was  the  mere  creature 
of  the  time,  the  circumstances,  and  the  company.  The 
dignified  reserve  of  manners  which  he  had  acquired  during 
a residence  in  Spain  provoked  the  ridicule  of  those  who 
considered  the  usages  of  the  French  court  as  the  only 
standard  of  good  breeding,  but  served  to  impress  the  crowd 
with  a favorable  opinion  of  his  sagacity  and  gravity.  In 
situations  where  the  solemnity  of  the  Escurial  would  have 
been  out  of  place,  he  threw  it  aside  wdthout  difficulty, 
and  conversed  with  great  humor  and  vivacity.  While  the 
multitude  were  talking  of  “ Bennet’s  grave  looks,”  # his 
mirth  made  his  presence  always  welcome  in  the  royal  closet. 
While  Buckingham,  in  the  antechamber,  was  mimicking  the 
pompous  Castilian  strut  of  the  Secretary,  for  the  diversion 
of  Mistress  Stuart,  this  stately  Don  was  ridiculing  Claren- 
don’s sober  counsels  to  the  King  within,  till  his  Majesty 
cried  with  laughter,  and  the  Chancellor  with  vexation.  There 
perhaps  never  was  a man  whose  outward  demeanor  made 
such  different  impressions  on  different  people.  Count 
Hamilton,  for  example,  describes  him  as  a stupid  formalist, 
who  had  been  made  secretary  solely  on  account  of  his  mys- 
terious and  important  looks.  Clarendon,  on  the  other  hand, 
represents  him  as  a man  whose  “ best  faculty  was  raillery,” 
and  who  was  “ for  his  pleasant  and  agreeable  humor  accept- 
able unto  the  King.”  The  truth  seems  to  be  that,  destitute 

* “ Bennet’s  grave  looks  wei  e a pretence  ” is  a line  in  one  of  the  best  political 
poems  of  that  age. 


27 6 macaitlay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

as  Bennet  was  of  all  the  higher  qualifications  of  a minister, 
he  had  a wonderful  talent  for  becoming,  in  outward  sem- 
blance, all  things  to  all  men.  He  had  two  aspects,  a busy  and 
serious  one  for  the  public,  whom  he  wished  to  awe  into 
respect,  and  a gay  one  for  Charles,  who  thought  that  the 
greatest  service  which  could  be  rendred  to  a prince  was  to 
amuse  him.  Yet  both  these  were  masks  which  he  laid  aside 
when  they  had  served  their  turn.  Long  after,  when  he  had 
retired  to  his  deer-park  and  fish-ponds  in  Suffolk,  and  had 
no  motive  to  act  the  part  either  of  the  hidalgo  or  of  the 
buffoon,  Evelyn,  who  was  neither  an  unpractised  nor  an  un- 
discerning judge,  conversed  much  with  him,  and  pronounced 
him  to  be  a man  of  singularly  polished  manners  and  of  great 
colloquial  powers. 

Clarendon,  proud  and  imperious  by  nature,  soured  by 
age  and  disease,  and  relying  on  his  great  talents  and  ser- 
vices, sought  out  no  new  allies.  He  seems  to  have  taken  a 
sort  of  morose  pleasure  in  slighting  and  provoking  all  the 
rising  talent  of  the  kingdom.  His  connections  were  almost 
entirely  confined  to  the  small  circle,  every  day  becoming 
smaller,  of  old  cavaliers  who  had  been  friends  of  his  youth 
or  companions  of  his  exile.  Arlington,  on  the  other  hand, 
beat  up  everywhere  for  recruits.  No  man  had  a greater 
personal  following,  and  no  man  exerted  himself  more  to 
serve  his  adherents.  It  was  a kind  of  habit  with  him  to 
push  up  his  dependents  to  his  own  level,  and  then  to  com- 
plain bitterly  of  their  ingratitude  because  they  did  not 
choose  to  be  his  dependents  any  longer.  It  was  thus  that 
he  quarrelled  with  two  successive  Treasurers,  Gifford  and 
Danby.  To  Arlington  Temple  attached  himself,  and  was 
not  sparing  of  warm  professions  of  affection,  or  even,  we. 
grieve  to  say,  of  gross  and  almost  jDrofane  adulation.  In  no 
long  time  he  obtained  his  reward. 

England  was  in  a very  different  situation  with  respect 
to  foieign  powers  from  that  which  she  had  occupied  during 
the  splendid  administration  of  the  Protector.  She  was  en- 
gaged in  war  with  the  United  Provinces,  then  governed 
with  almost  regal  power  by  the  Grand  Pensionary,  John  de 
Witt ; and  though  no  war  had  ever  cost  the  kingdom  so 
much,  none  had  ever  been  more  feebly  and  meanly  con- 
ducted. France  had  espoused  the  interest  of  the  States-Gen- 
eral.  Denmark  seemed  likely  to  take  the  same  side.  Spain, 
indignant  at  the  close  political  and  matrimonial  alliance 
which  Charles  had  formed  with  the  House  of  Braganza,  was 


fctft  WILtlAM  TEM1UJ2. 


277 


not  disposed  to  lend  him  any  assistance.  The  great  plague 
of  London  had  suspended  trade,  and  scattered  the  ministers 
and  nobles,  had  paralyzed  every  department  of  the  public 
service,  and  had  increased  the  gloomy  discontent  which  mis* 
government  had  begun  to  excite  throughout  the  nation. 
One  continental  ally  England  possessed,  the  Bishop  of 
Munster,  a restless  and  ambitious  prelate,  bred  a soldier, 
and  still  a soldier  in  all  his  tastes  and  passions.  He  hated 
the  Dutch  for  interfering  in  the  affairs  of  his  see,  and  de- 
clared himself  willing  to  risk  his  little  dominions  for  the 
chance  of  revenge.  He  sent,  accordingly,  a strange  kind  of 
ambassador  to  London,  a Benedictine  monk,  who  spoke  bad 
English,  and  looked,  says  Lord  Clarendon,  “ like  a carter.” 
This  person  brought  a letter  from  the  Bishop,  offering  to 
make  an  attack  by  land  on  the  Dutch  territory.  The  Eng- 
lish ministers  eagerly  caught  at  the  proposal,  and  promised 
a subsidy  of  500,000  rix-dollars  to  their  new  ally.  It  was 
determined  to  send  an  English  agent  to  Munster;  and  Ar- 
lington, to  whose  department  the  business  belonged,  fixed  on 
Temple  for  this  post. 

Temple  accepted  the  commission,  and  acquitted  himself 
to  the  satisfaction  of  his  employers,  though  the  whole  plan 
ended  in  nothing,  and  the  Bishop,  finding  that  France  had 
joined  Holland,  made  haste,  after  pocketing  an  instalment 
of  his  subsidy,  to  conclude  a separate  peace.  Temple,  at  a 
later  period,  looked  back  with  no  great  satisfaction  to  this 
part  of  his  life ; and  excused  himself  for  undertaking  a ne- 
gotiation fronx  which  little  good  could  result,  by  saying  that 
he  was  then  young  and  very  new  to  business.  In  truth,  he 
could  hardly  have  been  placed  in  a situation  where  the  em- 
inent diplomatic  talents  which  he  possessed  could  have  ap- 
peared to  less  advantage.  He  was  ignorant  of  the  German 
language,  and  did  not  easily  accommodate  himself  to  Ihe 
manners  of  the  people.  He  could  not  bear  much  wine  ; and 
none  but  a hard  drinker  had  any  chance  of  success  in  West- 
phalian Society.  Under  all  these  disadvantages,  however, 
he  gave  so  much  satisfaction  that  he  was  created  a baronet, 
an  I appointed  resident  at  the  viceregal  court  of  Brussels. 

Brussels  suited  Temple  far  better  than  the  palaces  of  the 
boar-hunting  and  wine-bibbing  princes  of  Germany.  He 
now  occupied  one  of  the  most  important  posts  of  observa- 
tion in  which  a diplomatist  could  be  stationed.  He  was 
placed  in  the  territory  of  a great  neutral  power,  between 
the  territory  of  two  great  powers  who  were  at  war  with 


278 


hacavlay’s  miscellaneous  WRITINGS, 


England.  From  this  excellent  school  he  soon  came  fo^^li 
the  most  accomplished  negotiator  of  his  age. 

In  the  mean  time  the  government  of  Charles  had  suf- 
fered a succession  of  humiliating  disasters.  The  extrava- 
gance of  the  court  had  dissipated  all  the  means  which  Par- 
liament had  supplied  for  the  purpose  of  carrying  on  offen- 
sive hostilities.  It  was  determined  to  wage  only  a defensive 
war ; and  even  for  defensive  war  the  vast  resources  of  Eng- 
land, managed  by  t riders  and  public  robbers,  were  found 
insufficient.  The  Dutch  insulted  the  British  coasts,  sailed 
up  the  Thames,  took  Sheerness,  and  carried  their  ravages  to 
Chatham.  The  blaze  of  the  ships  burning  in  the  river  was 
seen  at  London : it  was  rumored  that  a foreign  army  had 
landed  at  Gravesend ; and  military  men  seriously  proposed 
to  abandon  the  Tower.  To  such  a depth  of  infamy  had 
a bad  administration  reduced  that  proud  and  victorious 
country,  which  a few  years  before  had  dictated  its  pleasure 
to  Mazarine,  to  the  States-General,  and  to  the  Vatican. 
Humbled  by  the  events  of  the  war,  and  dreading  the  just 
anger  of  Parliament,  the  English  Ministry  hastened  to  hud- 
dle up  a peace  with  France  and  Holland  at  Breda. 

But  a new  scene  was  about  to  open.  It  had  already  been 
for  some  time  apparent  to  discerning  observers,  that  England 
and  Holland  were  threatened  by  a common  danger,  much 
more  formidable  than  any  which  they  had  reason  to  appre- 
hend from  each  other.  The  old  enemy  of  their  independence 
and  of  their  religion  was  no  longer  to  be  dreaded.  The  sceptre 
had  passed  away  from  Spain.  That  mighty  empire,  on  which 
the  sun  never  set,  which  had  crushed  the  liberties  of  Italy 
and  Germany,  which  had  occupied  Paris  with  its  armies, 
and  covered  the  British  seas  with  its  sails,  was  at  the  mercy 
of  every  spoiler;  and  Europe  observed  with  dismay  the 
rapid  growth  of  a new  and  more  formidable  power.  Men 
looked  to  Spain  and  saw  only  weakness  disguised  and  in- 
creased by  pride,  dominions  of  vast  bulk  and  little  strength, 
tempting,  unwieldy,  and  defenceless,  an  empty  treasury,  a 
sullen  and  torpid  nation,  a child  on  the  throne,  factions  in 
the  council,  ministers  who  served  only  themselves,  and  sol- 
diers who  were  terrible  only  to  their  countrymen.  Men 
looked  to  France,  and  saw  a large  and  compact  territory,  a 
rich  soil,  a central  situation,  a bold,  alert,  and  ingenious 
people,  large  revenues,  numerous  and  well-disciplined 
troops,  an  active  and  ambitious  prince,  in  the  dower  of  his 
age,  surrounded  by  generals  of  unrivalled  skill.  The  pro 


SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


279 

jects  of  Lewis  could  be  counteracted  only  by  ability,  vigor, 
and  union  on  the  part  of  liis  neighbors.  Ability  and  vigor 
had  hitherto  been  found  in  the  councils  of  Holland  alone, 
and  of  union  there  was  no  appearance  in  Europe.  The 
question  of  Portuguese  independence  separated  England 
from  Spain.  Old  grudges,  recent  hostilities,  maritime  pre- 
tensions, commercial  competition  separated  England  as 
widely  from  the  United  Provinces. 

The  great  object  of  Lewis,  from  the  beginning  to  the 
end  of  his  reign,  was  the  acquisition  of  those  large  and 
valuable  provinces  of  the  Spanish  monarchy,  which  lay  con- 
tiguous to  the  eastern  frontier  of  France.  Already,  before 
the  conclusion  of  the  treaty  of  Breda,  lie  had  invaded  those 
provinces.  lie  now  pushed  on  his  conquest  with  scarcely 
any  resistance.  Fortress  after  fortress  was  taken.  Brussels 
Itself  was  in  danger ; and  Temple  thought  it  wise  to  send 
his  wife  and  children  to  England.  But  his  sister,  Lady 
Giffard,  who  had  been  some  time  liis  inmate,  and  who  seems 
to  have  been  a more  important  personage  in  his  family  than 
his  wife,  still  remained  with  him. 

De  Witt  saw  the  progress  of  the  French  arms  with  pain- 
ful anxiety.  But  it  was  not  in  the  power  of  Holland  alone 
to  save  Flanders  ; and  the  difficulty  of  forming  an  extensive 
coalition  for  that  purpose  appeared  almost  insuperable. 
Lewis,  indeed,  affected  moderation.  He  declared  himself 
willing  to  agree  to  a compromise  with  Spain.  But  these 
offers  were  undoubtedly  mere  professions,  intended  to  quiet 
the  apprehensions  of  the  neighboring  powers ; and,  as  his 
position  became  every  day  more  and  more  advantageous, 
it  was  to  be  expected  that  he  would  rise  in  his  demands. 

Such  was  the  state  of  affairs  when  Temple  obtained  from 
the  English  Ministry  permission  to  make  a tour  in  Holland 
incognito.  In  company  with  Lady  Giffard  he  arrived  at 
the  Hague.  He  was  not  charged  with  any  public  commis- 
sion, but  he  availed  himself  of  this  opportunity  of  introdu- 
cing himself  to  Be  Witt.  “ My  only  business,  sir,”  he  said, 
“ is  to  see  the  tilings  which  are  most  considerable  in  your 
country,  and  I should  execute  my  design  very  imperfectly 
if  I went  away  without  seeing  you.”  Be  Witt,  who  from 
report  had  formed  a high  opinion  of  Temple,  was  pleased 
by  the  compliment,  and  replied  with  a frankness  and  cordi- 
ality which  at  once  led  to  intimacy.  The  two  statesmen 
talked  calmly  over  the  causes  which  has  estranged  England 
from  Holland,  congratulated  each  other  on  the  peace,  and 


280  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

then  began  to  discuss  the  new  dangers  which  menaced 
Europe.  Temple,  who  had  no  authority  to  say  anything  on 
behalf  of  the  English  Government,  expressed  himself  very 
guardedly.  De  Witt,  who  was  himself  the  Dutch  Govern- 
ment, had  no  reason  to  be  reserved.  He  openly  declared 
that  his  wish  was  to  see  a general  coalition  formed  for  the 
preservation  of  Flanders.  His  simplicity  and  openness 
amazed  Temple,  who  had  been  accustomed  to  the  affected 
solemnity  of  his  patron,  the  Secretary,  and  to  the  eternal 
doublings  and  evasions  which  passed  for  great  feats  of 
statesmanship  among  the  Spanish  politicians  at  Brussels. 
“ Whoever,”  he  wrote  to  Arlington,  “ deals  with  M.  de  Witt 
must  go  the  same  plain  way  that  he  pretends  to  in  his  nego- 
tiations, without  refining  or  coloring  or  offering  shadow  for 
substance.”  Temple  was  scarcely  less  struck  by  the  modest 
dwelling  and  frugal  table  of  the  first  citizen  of  the  richest 
state  in  the  world.  While  Clarendon  was  amazing  London 
with  a dwelling  more  sumptuous  than  the  palace  of  his  mas- 
ter, while  Arlington  was  lavishing  his  ill-gotten  wealth  on 
the  decoys  and  orange-gardens  and  interminable  conserva- 
tories of  Euston,  the  great  statesman  who  had  frustrated  all 
their  plans  of  conquest,  and  the  roar  of  whose  guns  they 
had  heard  with  terror  even  in  the  galleries  of  Whitehall, 
kept  only  a single  servant,  walked  about  the  streets  in  the 
plainest  garb,  and  never  used  a coach  except  for  visits  of 
ceremony. 

Temple  sent  a full  account  of  his  interview  with  De 
Witt  to  Arlington,  who,  in  consequence  of  the  fall  of  the 
Chancellor,  now  shared  with  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  the 
principal  direction  of  affairs.  Arlington  showed  no  disposi- 
tion to  meet  the  advances  of  the  Dutch  minister.  Indeed, 
as  was  amply  proved  a few  years  later,  both  he  and  his 
master  were  perfectly  willing  to  purchase  the  means  of  mis- 
governing England  by  giving  up,  not  only  Flanders,  but  the 
whole  Continent,  to  France.  Temple,  who  distinctly  saw 
that  a moment  had  arrived  at  which  it  was  possible  to 
reconcile  his  country  with  Holland,  to  reconcile  Charles 
with  the  Parliament,  to  bridle  the  power  of  Lewis,  to  efface 
the  shame  of  the  late  ignominious  war,  to  restore  England 
to  the  same  place  in  Europe  which  she  had  occupied  under 
Cromwell,  became  more  and  more  urgent  in  his  representa- 
tions. Arlington’s  replies  were  for  some  time  couched  in 
cold  and  ambiguous  terms.  But  the  events  which  followed 
the  meeting  of  Parliament,  in  the  autumn  of  1667,  appear 


BIU  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


281 


to  have  produced  an  entire  change  in  his  views.  The  dis- 
content of  the  nation  was  deep  and  general.  The  adminis- 
tration was  attacked  in  all  its  parts.  The  King  and  the 
ministers  labored,  not  unsuccessfully,  to  throw  on  Clarendon 
the  blame  of  past  miscarriages ; but  though  the  Commons 
were  resolved  that  the  late  Chancellor  should  be  the  first 
victim,  it  was  by  no  means  clear  that  he  would  be  the  last. 
The  Secretary  was  personally  attacked  with  great  bitterness 
m the  course  of  the  debates.  One  of  the  resolutions  of  the 
Lower  House  against  Clarendon  was  in  truth  a censure  of 
the  foreign  policy  of  the  Government,  as  too  favorable  to 
France.  To  these  events  chiefly  we  are  inclined  to  attrib- 
ute the  change  which  at  this  crisis  took  place  in  the  meas- 
ures of  England.  The  Ministry  seem  to  have  felt  that,  if 
they  wished  to  derive  any  advantage  from  Clarendon’s 
downfall,  it  was  necessary  for  them  to  abandon  what  was 
supposed  to  be  Clarendon’s  system,  and  by  some  splendid 
and  popular  measure  to  win  the  confidence  of  the  nation. 
Accordingly,  in  December,  1667,  Temple  received  a des- 
patch containing  instructions  of  the  highest  importance. 
The  plan  which  he  had  so  strongly  recommended  was 
approved ; and  he  was  directed  to  visit  De  Witt  as  speedily 
as  possible,  and  to  ascertain  whether  the  States  were  will- 
ing to  enter  into  an  offensive  and  defensive  league  with 
England  against  the  projects  of  France.  Temple,  accom- 
panied by  his  sister,  instantly  set  out  for  the  Hague,  and 
laid  the  propositions  of  the  English  Government  before  the 
Grand  Pensionary.  The  Dutch  statesman  answered  with 
characteristic  straightforwardness,  that  he  was  fully  ready 
to  agree  to  a defensive  confederacy,  but  that  it  was  the  fun- 
damental principle  of  the  foreign  policy  of  the  States  to 
make  no  offensive  alliance  under  any  circumstances  what- 
ever. With  this  answer  Temple  hastened  from  the  Hague 
to  London,  had  an  audience  of  the  King,  related  what  had 
passed  between  himself  and  De  Witt,  exerted  himself  to 
remove  the  unfavorable  opinion  which  had  been  conceived 
of  the  Grand  Pensionary  at  the  English  Court,  and  had  the 
satisfaction  of  succeeding  in  all  his  objects.  On  the  even- 
ing of  the  first  of  January,  1668,  a council  was  held,  at 
which  Charles  declared  his  resolution  to  unite  with  the 
Dutch  on  their  own  terms.  Temple  and  his  indefatigable 
sister  immediately  sailed  again  for  the  Hague,  and,  after 
weathering  a violent  storm  in  which  they  were  very  nearly 
lost,  arrived  in  safety  at  the  place  of  their  destination. 


282 


MACAULAY^  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


On  tills  occasion,  as  on  every  other,  the  dealings  between 
Temple  and  Do  Witt  were  singularly  fair  and  open.  When 
they  met,  Temple  began  by  recapitulating  what  had  passed 
at  their  last  interview.  De  Witt,  who  was  as  little  given  to 
lying  with  his  face  as  with  his  tongue,  marked  his  as- 
sent by  his  looks  while  the  recapitulation  proceeded,  and, 
when  it  was  concluded,  answered  that  Temple’s  memory 
was  perfectly  correct,  and  thanked  him  for  proceeding  in  sc 
exact  and  sincere  a manner.  Temple  then  informed  the 
Grand  Pensionary  that  the  King  of  England  had  determined 
to  close  with  the  proposal  of  a defensive  alliance.  De  Witt 
had  not  expected  so  speedy  a resolution ; and  his  counte- 
nance indicated  surprise  as  well  as  pleasure.  But  he  did 
not  retract,  and  it  was  speedily  arranged  that  England  and 
Holland  should  unite  for  the  purpose  of  compelling  Lewis  to 
abide  by  the  compromise  which  he  had  formerly  offered. 
The  next  object  of  the  two  statesmen  was  to  induce  another 
government  to  become  a party  to  their  league.  The  vic- 
tories of  Gustavus  and  Torstenson,  and  the  political  talents 
of  Oxensticrn,  had  obtained  for  Sweden  a consideration  in 
Europe,  disproportion ed  to  her  real  power : the  princes  of 
Northern  Germany  stood  in  great  awe  of  her;  andDe  Witt 
and  Temple  agreed  that  if  she  could  be  induced  to  accede 
to  the  league,  “it  would  be  too  strong  a bar  for  France  to 
venture  on.”  Temple  went  that  same  evening  to  Count 
Dona,  the  Swedish  Minister  at  the  Hague,  took  a seat  in  the 
most  unceremonious  manner,  and,  with  that  air  of  frankness 
and  good-will,  by  which  he  often  succeeded  in  rendering  his 
diplomatic  overtures  acceptable,  explained  the  scheme  which 
was  in  agitation.  Dona  was  greatly  pleased  and  flattered. 
He  had  not  powers  which  would  authorize  him  to  conclude 
a treaty  of  such  importance.  But  he  strongly  advised 
Temple  and  De  Witt  to  do  their  part  without  delay,  and 
seemed  confident  that  Sweden  would  accede.  The  ordinary 
course  of  public  business  in  Holland  was  too  slow  for  the 
present  emergency;  and  DeWitt  appeared  to  have  some 
scruples  about  breaking  through  the  established  forms. 
But  the  urgency  and  dexterity  of  Temple  prevailed.  The 
States-General  took  the  responsibility  of  executing  the  treaty 
with  a celerity  unprecedented  in  the  annals  of  the  federation, 
and  indeed  inconsistent  with  its  fundamental  laws.  The 
state  of  public  feeling  was,  however,  such  in  all  the  provinces, 
that  this  irregularity  was  not  merely  pardoned  but  applauded. 
When  the  instrument  had  been  formally  signed,  the  Dutch 


SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


283 


Commissioners  embraced  the  English  Plenipotentiary  with 
the  warmest  expressions  of  kindness  and  confidence.  “At 
Breda,”  exclaimed  Temple,  “ we  embraced  as  friends,  here 
as  brothers.” 

This  memorable  negotiation  occupied  only  five  days. 
De  Witt  complimented  Temple  in  high  terms  on  having 
effected  in  so  short  a time  what  must,  under  other  manage- 
ment, have  been  the  work  of  months ; and  Temple,  in  his 
despatches,  spoke  in  equally  high  terms  of  De  Witt.  “ I 
must  add  these  words  to  do  M.  de  Witt  right,  that  I found 
him  as  plain,  as  direct  and  square  in  the  course  of  this  busi- 
ness as  any  man  could  be,  though  often  stiff  in  points  where 
he  thought  any  advantage  could  accrue  to  his  country ; and 
have  all  the  reason  in  the  world  to  be  satisfied  with  him  ; 
and  for  his  industry,  no  man  had  evermore  I am  sure.  For 
these  five  days  at  least,  neither  of  us  spent  any  idle  hours, 
neither  day  nor  night.” 

Sweden  willingly  acceded  to  the  league,  which  is  known 
in  history  by  the  name  of  the  Triple  Alliance  ; and,  after 
some  signs  of  ill-humor  on  the  part  of  France,  a general 
pacification  was  the  result. 

The  Triple  Alliance  may  be  viewed  in  two  lights,  as  a 
measure  of  foreign  policy,  and  as  a measure  of  domestic 
policy  ; and  under  both  aspects  it  seems  to  us  deserving  of 
all  the  praise  which  has  been  bestowed  upon  it. 

Dr.  Lingard,  who  is  undoubtedly  a very  able  and  well- 
informed  writer,  but  whose  great  fundamental  rule  of  judg- 
ing seems  to  be  that  the  popular  opinion  on  a historical 
question  cannot  possibly  be  correct,  speaks  very  slightingly 
of  this  celebrated  treaty ; and  Mr.  Courtenay,  who  by  no 
means  regards  Temple  with  that  profound  veneration  which 
is  generally  found  in  biographers,  has  conceded,  in  our 
opinion,  far  too  much  to  Dr.  Lingard. 

The  reasoning  of  Dr.  Lingard  is  simply  this.  The  Triple 
Alliance  only  compelled  Lewis  to  make  peace  on  the  terms 
on  which,  before  the  alliance  was  formed,  he  had  offered  to 
make  peace.  How  can  it  then  be  said  that  this  alliance 
arrested  his  career,  and  preserved  Europe  from  his  ambition  ? 
Now,  this  reasoning  is  evidently  of  no  force  at  all,  except  on 
the  s upposition  that  Lewis  would  have  held  himself  bound 
by  his  former  offers,  if  the  alliance  had  not  been  formed ; 
and  if  Dr.  Lingard  thinks  this  a reasonable  supposition, 
we  should  be  disposed  to  say  to  him,  in  the  words  of 
that  great  politician!  Mrs*  Western  * “ Indeed*  brotb^ 


1284 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


would  make  a fine  plenipo  to  negotiate  with  the  French, 
They  would  soon  persuade  you  that  they  take  towns  out  of 
mere  defensive  principles.”  Our  own  impression  is  that 
Lewis  made  his  offer  only  in  order  to  avert  some  such 
measure  as  the  Triple  Alliance,  and  adhered  to  his  offer  only 
in  consequence  of  that  alliance.  He  had  refused  to  consent 
to  an  armistice.  He  had  made  all  his  arrangements  for  a 
winter  campaign.  In  the  very  week  in  which  Temple  and 
the  States  concluded  their  agreement  at  the  Hague,  Franche 
Comte  was  attacked  by  the  French  armies,  and  in  three 
weeks  the  whole  province  was  conquered.  This  prey  Lewis 
was  compelled  to  disgorge.  And  what  compelled  him? 
Did  the  object  seem  to  him  small  or  contemptible?  On  the 
contrary,  the  annexation  of  Franche  Comte  to  his  kingdom 
was  one  of  the  favorite  projects  of  his  life.  Was  he  with- 
held by  regard  for  his  word?  Did  he,  who  never  in  any 
other  transaction  of  his  reign  showed  the  smallest  respect 
for  the  most  solemn  obligation's  of  public  faith,  who  violated 
the  Treaty  of  the  Pyrenees,  who  violated  the  Treaty  of 
Aix,  who  violated  the  Treaty  of  Nimeguen,  who  violated 
the  Partition  Treaty,  who  violated  the  Treaty  of  Utrecht, 
feel  himself  restrained  by  his  Avord  on  this  single  occasion  ? 
Can  any  person  who  is  acquainted  with  his  character  and 
writh  his  whole  policy  doubt  that,  if  the  neighboring  powers  J 
would  have  looked  quietly  on,  he  would  instantly  have  risen 
in  his  demands ? How  then  stands  the  case?  He  wished 
to  keep  Franche  Comte.  It  was  not  from  regard  to  his 
word  that  he  ceded  Franche  Comte.  Why  did  he  then 
cede  Franche  Comte  ? We  answer,  as  all  Europe  answered 
at  the  time,  from  fear  of  the  Triple  Alliance. 

But  grant  that  Lewis  was  not  really  stopped  in  his  pro- 
gress by  this  famous  league  ; still  it  is  certain  that  the  world 
then,  and  long  after,  believed  that  he  was  so  stopped,  and 
that  this  w as  the  prevailing  imjDression  in  France  as  well  as 
in  other  countries.  Temple,  therefore,  at  the  very  least, 
succeeded  in  raising  the  credit  of  his  country,  and  in  lower- 
ing the  credit  of  a rival  powder.  Here  there  is  no  room  for 
controversy.  No  grubbing  among  old  state-papers  will  ever 
bring  to  light  any  document  which  will  shake  these  facts ; 
that  Europe  believed  the  ambition  of  France  to  have  been 
curbed  by  the  three  powers ; that  England,  a few  months 
before  the  last  among  the  nations,  forced  to  abandon  her 
own  seas,  unable  to  defend  the  mouths  of  her  own  rivers,  re- 
gained almost  as  high  a place  in  the  estimation  of  her  neigh* 


SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


285 


bors  as  she  had  held  in  the  times  of  Elizabeth  and  Oliver ; 
and  that  all  this  change  of  opinion  was  produced  in  five  days 
by  wise  and  resolute  counsels,  without  the  firing  of  a single 
gun.  That  the  Triple  Alliance  effected  this  will  hardly  be 
disputed ; and  therefore,  even  if  it  effected  nothing  else,  it 
must  still  be  regarded  as  a master-piece  of  diplomacy. 

Considered  as  a measure  of  domestic  policy,  this  treaty 
seems  to  be  equally  deserving  of  approbation.  It  did  much 
to  allay  discontents,  to  reconcile  the  sovereign  with  a peo- 
ple who  had,  under  his  wretched  administration,  become 
ashamed  of  him  and  of  themselves.  It  was  a kind  of  pledge 
for  internal  good  government.  The  foreign  relations  of  the 
kingdom  had  at  that  time  the  closest  connection  with  our 
domestic  policy.  From  the  Restoration  to  the  accession  of 
the  House  of  Hanover,  Holland  and  France  were  to  Eng- 
land what  the  right-hand  horseman  and  the  left-hand  horse- 
man in  Burger’s  fine  ballad  were  to  the  Wildgraf,  the  good 
and  the  evil  counsellor,  the  angel  of  light  and  the  angel  of 
darkness.  The  ascendency  of  France  was  inseparably  con- 
nected with  the  prevalence  of  tyranny  in  domestic  affairs. 
The  ascendency  of  Holland  was  as  inseparably  connected 
with  the  prevalence  of  political  liberty  and  of  mutual  toler- 
ation among  Protestant  sects.  How  fatal  and  degrading  an 
influence  Lewis  was  destined  to  exercise  on  the  British  coun- 
sels, how  great  a deliverance  our  country  was  destined  to 
owe  to  the  States,  could  not  be  foreseen  when  the  Triple  Al- 
liance was  concluded.  Yet  even  then  all  discerning  men 
considered  it  as  a good  omen  for  the  English  constitution 
and  the  reformed  religion,  that  the  Government  had  at- 
tached itself  to  Holland,  and  had  assumed  a firm  and  some- 
what hostile  attitude  towards  France.  The  fame  of  this 
measure  was  the  greater,  because  it  stood  so  entirely  alone. 
It  was  the  single  eminently  good  act  performed  by  the  Gov- 
ernment during  the  interval  between  the  Restoration  and 
the.  Revolution.'*  Every  person  who  had  the  smallest  part 
m it,  and  some  who  had  no  part  in  it  at  all,  battled  for  a 
share  of  the  credit.  The  most  parsimonious  republicans 
were  ready  to  grant  money  for  the  purpose  of  carrying  into 
effect  the  provisions  of  this  popular  alliance  ; and  the  great 
Tory  poet  of  that  age,  in  his  finest  satires,  repeatedly  spoke 
vvith  reverence  of  the  “ triple  bond.” 

This  negotiation  raised  the  fame  of  Temple  both  at  home 

* “ The  only  good  publio  thing  that  hath  beeh  done  since  the  King  cam  'tote 
Lagland/’—^nys’s  Diary,  February  14, 


286  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

and  abroad  to  a great  height,  to  such  a height,  indeed,  as 
seems  to  have  excited  the  jealousy  of  his  friend  Arlington. 
While  London  and  Amsterdam  resounded  with  acclama- 
tions of  joy,  the  Secretary,  in  very  cold  official  language, 
communicated  to  his  friend  the  approbation  of  the  King; 
and,  lavish  as  the  Government  was  of  titles  and  of  money, 
its  ablest  servant  was  neither  ennobled  nor  enriched. 

Temple’s  next  mission  was  to  Aix-la-Chapelle,  where  a 
general  congress  met  for  the  purpose  of  perfecting  the  work 
of  the  Triple  Alliance.  On  his  road  he  received  abundant 
proofs  of  the  estimation  in  which  he  was  held.  Salutes  were 
fired  from  the  walls  of  the  towns  through  which  he  passed ; 
the  population  poured  forth  into  the  streets  to  see  him ; and 
the  magistrates  entertained  him  with  speeches  and  banquets. 
After  the  close  of  the  negotiations  at  Aix  he  was  appointed 
Ambassador  at  the  Hague.  But  in  both  these  missions  he 
experienced  much  vexation  from  the  rigid,  and,  indeed,  un- 
just parsimony  of  the  Government.  Profuse  to  many  un- 
worthy applicants,  the  Ministers  were  niggardly  to  him 
alone.  They  secretly  disliked  his  politics ; and  they  seem 
to  have  indemnified  themselves  for  the  humiliation  of  adopt- 
ing his  measures,  by  cutting  down  his  salary  and  delaying 
the  settlement  of  his  outfit. 

At  the  Hague  he  was  received  with  cordiality  by  De 
Witt,  and  with  the  most  signal  marks  of  respect  by  the 
States-General.  His  situation  was  in  one  point  extremely 
delicate.  The  Prince  of  Orange,  the  hereditary  chief  of  the 
faction  opposed  to  the  administration  of  De  Witt,  was  the 
nephew  of  Charles.  To  preserve  the  confidence  of  the  rul- 
ing party,  without  showing  any  want  of  respect  to  so  near 
a relation  of  his  own  master,  was  no  easy  task.  But  Tem- 
ple acquitted  himself  so  well  that  he  appears  to  have  been 
in  great  favor,  both  with  the  Grand  Pensionary  and  with 
the  Prince. 

In  the  main,  the  years  which  he  spent  at  the  Hague 
seem,  in  spite  of  some  pecuniary  difficulties  occasioned  by 
the  ill-will  of  the  English  Ministers,  to  have  passed  very 
agreeably.  He  enjoyed  the  highest  personal  consideration. 
He  was  surrounded  by  objects  interesting  in  the  highest  de- 
gree to  a man  of  his  observant  turn  of  mind.  He  had  no 
wearing  labor,  no  heavy  responsibility ; and,  if  ho  had  no 
opportunity  of  adding  to  his  high  reputation,  he  vm  no  risk 
of  impairing  it. 

Put  evil  times  were  at  hand,  Though  Charles  had  for  $ 


SfK  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


28? 


moment  deviated  into  a wise  and  dignified  policy,  his  heart 
had  always  been  with  France  ; and  France  employed  every 
means  of  seduction  to  lure  him  back.  His  impatience  of 
control,  his  greediness  for  money,  his  passion  for  beauty, 
his  family  affections,  all  his  tastes,  all  his  feelings,  were 
practised  on  with  the  utmost  dexterity.  His  interior  Cab- 
inet was  now  composed  of  men  such  as  that  generation,  and 
that  generation  alone,  produced  ; of  men  at  whose  audacious 
profligacy  the  renegades  and  jobbers  of  our  own  time  look 
with  the  same  sort  of  admiring  despair  with  wrhich  our 
sculptors  contemplate  the  Theseus,  and  our  painters  the 
Cartoons.  To  be  a real,  hearty,  deadly  enemy  of  the  liber- 
ties and  religion  of  the  nation  wras,  in  that  dark  conclave, 
an  honorable  distinction,  a distinction  which  belonged  only 
to  the  daring  and  impetuous  Clifford.  His  associates  were 
men  to  whom  all  creeds  and  all  constitutions  were  alike ; 
who  were  equally  ready  to  profess  the  faith  of  Geneva,  of 
Lambeth,  and  of  Home ; who  were  equally  ready  to  be  tools 
of  power  without  any  sense  of  loyalty,  and  stirrers  of  sedi- 
tion without  any  zeal  for  freedom. 

It  was  hardly  possible  even  for  a man  so  penetrating  as 
De  Witt  to  foresee  to  what  depths  of  wickedness  and  infamy 
this  execrable  administration  would  descend.  Yet,  many 
signs  of  the  great  woe  which  was  coming  on  Europe,  the 
visit  of  the  Duchess  of  Orleans  to  her  brother,  the  unex- 
plained mission  of  Buckingham  to  Paris,  the  sudden  occupa- 
tion of  Lorraine  by  the  French,  made  the  Grand  Pensionary 
uneasy ; and  his  alarm  increased  wThen  he  learned  that 
Temple  had  received  orders  to  repair  instantly  to  London. 
De  Witt  earnestly  pressed  for  an  explanation.  Temple 
very  sincerely  replied  that  he  hoped  that  the  English  Min- 
isters would  adhere  to  the  principles  of  the  Triple  Alliance. 
“ I can  answer,”  he  said,  C(  only  for  myself.  But  that  I can 
do.  If  a new  system  is  to  be  adopted,  I will  never  have 
any  part  in  it.  I have  told  the  King  so  : and  I will  make  my 
words  good.  If  I return  you  will  know  more  : and  ii  1 a® 
not  return  you  will  guess  more.  De  Witt  smiled,  and 
answered  that  he  would  hope  the  best,  and  would  do  all  in 
his  power  to  prevent  others  from  forming  unfavorable  sur- 
mises. 

In  October,  1670,  Temple  reached  London ; and  all  his 
worst  suspicions  were  immediately  more  than  confirmed. 
He  repaired  to  the  Secretary’s  house,  and  was  kept  an  hour 
and  a half  waiting  in  the  ante-chamber,  whilst  Lord  Ashley 


288  MACAULAY^S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITING'S. 

was  closeted  with  Arlington.  When  at  length  the  doors 
were  thrown  open,  Arlington  was  dry  and  cold,  asked 
trilling  questions  about  the  voyage,  and  then,  in  order  to 
escape  the  necessity  of  discussing  business,  called  in  his 
daughter,  an  engaging  little  girl  of  three  years  old,  who  was 
long  after  described  by  poets  “ as  dressed  in  all  the  bloom 
of  smiling  nature,”  and  whom  Evelyn,  one  of  the  witnesses 
of  her  inauspicious  marriage,  mournfully  designated  as  “ the 
sweetest  hopefullest,  most  beautiful  child,  and  most  virtu- 
ous too.”  Any  particular  conversation  was  impossible  : and 
Temple,  who  with  all  his  constitutional  or  philosophical  indif- 
ference, was  sufficiently  sensitive  on  the  side  of  vanity,  felt 
this  treatment  keenly.  The  next  day  he  offered  himself  to 
the  notice  of  the  King,  who  was  snuffing  up  the  morning 
air  and  feeding  his  ducks  in  the  Mall.  Charles  was  civil, 
but,  like  Arlington,  carefully  avoided  all  conversation  on 
politics.  Temple  found  that  all  his  most  respectable  friends 
were  entirely  excluded  from  the  secrets  of  the  inner  council, 
and  were  awaiting  in  anxiety  and  dread  for  what  those 
mysterious  deliberations  might  produce.  At  length  he  ob- 
tained a glimpse  of  light.  The  bold  spirit  and  fierce  passions 
of  Clifford  made  him  the  most  unfit  of  all  men  to  be  the 
keeper  of  a momentous  secret.  He  told  Temple  with  great 
vehemence,  that  the  States  had  behaved  basely,  that  l)e 
Witt  was  a rogue  and  a rascal,  that  it  was  below  the  King 
of  England,  or  any  other  king,  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
such  wretches  ; that  this  ought  to  be  made  known  to  all  the 
world,  and  that  it  was  the  duty  of  the  Minister  at  the  Hague 
to  declare  it  publicly.  Temple  commanded  his  temper  as 
well  as  he  could,  and  replied  calmly  and  firmly,  that  he  should 
make  no  such  declaration,  and  that,  if  he  were  called  upon 
to  give  his  opinion  of  the  States  and  their  Ministers,  he 
would  say  exactly  what  he  thought. 

He  now  saw  clearly  that  the  tempest  was  gathering  fast, 
that  the  great  alliance  which  he  had  formed  and  over  which 
he  had  watched  with  parental  care  was  about  to  be  dissolved, 
that  times  were  at  hand  when  it  would  be  necessary  for  him, 
if  he  continued  in  public  life,  either  to  take  part  decidedly 
against  the  Court,  or  to  forfeit  the  high  reputation  which  he 
enjoyed  at  home  and  abroad.  lie  began  to  make  prepara- 
tions for  retiring  altogether  from  business.  He  enlarged  a 
little  garden  which  he  had  purchased  at  Sheen,  and  laid  out 
some  money  in  ornamenting  his  house  there.  He  was  still 
nominally  ambassador  to  Holland;  and  the  English  Minis- 


SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLRL 


289 


ters  continued  during  some  months  to  flatter  the  States 
with  the  hope  that  he  would  speedily  return.  At  length  in 
June,  1671,  the  designs  of  the  Cabal  were  ripe.  The  in- 
famous treaty  with  France  had  been  ratified.  The  season 
of  deception  was  past,  and  that  of  insolence  and  violence 
had  arrived.  Temple  received  his  formal  dismission,  kissed 
the  King’s  hand,  was  repaid  for  his  services  with  some  of 
those  vague  compliments  and  promises  which  cost  so  little 
to  the  cold  heart,  the  easy  temper,  and  the  ready  tongue  of 
Charles,  and  quietly  withdrew  to  his  little  nest,  as  he  called 
it,  at  Sheen. 

There  he  amused  himself  with  gardening,  which  he 
practised  so  successfully  that  the  fame  of  his  fruit-trees  soon 
spread  far  and  wide.  But  letters  were  his  chief  solace.  He 
had,  as  we  have  mentioned,  been  from  his  youth  in  the 
habit  of  diverting  himself  with  composition.  The  clear 
and  agreeable  language  of  his  despatches  had  early  at- 
tracted the  notice  of  his  employers ; and  before  the  peace 
of  Breda,  he  had,  at  the  request  of  Arlington,  published  a 
pamphlet  on  the  war,  of  which  nothing  is  now  known,  ex- 
cept that  it  had  some  vogue  at  the  time,  and  that  Charles, 
not  a contemptible  judge,  pronounced  it  to  be  very  well 
written.  Temple  had  also,  a short 'time  before  he  began  to 
reside  at  the  Hague,  written  a treatise  on  the  state  of  Ire- 
land, in  which  he  showed  all  the  feelings  of  a Cromwellian. 
He  had  gradually  formed  a style  singularly  lucid  and  melodi- 
ous, superficially  deformed,  indeed,  by  Gallicisms  and  His- 
panicisms,  picked  up  in  travel  or  in  negotiation,  but  at  the 
bottom  pure  English,  which  generally  flowed  along  with 
careless  simplicity,  but  occasionally  rose  even  into  Cicero- 
nean  magnificence.  The  length  of  his  sentences  has  often 
been  remarked.  But  in  truth  this  length  is  only  apparent. 
A critic  who  considers  as  one  sentence  everything  that  lies 
between  two  full  stops  will  undoubtedly  call  Temple’s  sen- 
tences long.  But  a critic  who  examines  them  carefully  will 
find  that  they  are  not  swollen  by  parenthetical  matter,  that 
their  structure  is  scarcely  ever  intricate,  that  they  are 
formed  merely  by  accumulation,  and  that  by  the  simple 
process  of  now  and  then  leaving  out  a conjunction  and  now 
and  then  substituting  a fall  stop  for  a semicolon,  they 
might,  without  any  alteration  in  the  order  of  the  words,  be 
broken  up  into  very  short  periods,  with  no  sacrifice  except 
that  of  euphony.  The  long  sentences  of  Hooker  and  Claren- 
don, on  the  contrary,  are  really  long  sentences,  rand  cannot 
Vox,  XI.-49 


290  macaulay's  miscellaneous  writings. 

be  turned  into  short  ones,  without  being  entirely  taken  tO 
pieces. 

The  best  known  of  the  works  which  Temple  composed 
during  his  first  retreat  from  official  business  are  an  Essay 
on  Government,  which  seems  to  us  exceedingly  childish, 
and  an  account  of  the  United  Provinces,  which  we  value  as 
a masterpiece  in  its  kind.  Whoever  compares  these  two 
treatises  will  probably  agree  with  us  in  thinking  that  Tem- 
ple was  not  a very  deep  or  accurate  reasoner,  but  was  an  ex- 
cellent observer,  that  he  had  no  call  to  philosophical  spec- 
ulation, but  that  he  was  qualified  to  excel  as  a writer  of 
Memoirs  and  Travels. 

While  Temple  was  engaged  in  these  pursuits,  the  great 
storm  which  had  long  been  brooding  over  Europe  burst  with 
such  fury  as  for  a moment  seemed  to  threaten  ruin  to  all 
free  governments  and  all  Protestant  churches.  France  and 
England,  without  seeking  for  any  decent  pretext,  declared 
war  against  Holland.  The  immense  armies  of  Lewis  poured 
across  the  Rhine,  and  invaded  the  territory  of  the  United 
Provinces.  The  Dutch  seemed  to  be  paralyzed  by  terror. 
Great  towns  opened  their  gates  to  straggling  parties.  Regi- 
ments flung  down  their  arms  without  seeing  an  enemy. 
Guelderland,  Overyssel,  Utrecht  were  overrun  by  the  con- 
querors. The  fires  of  the  French  camp  were  seen  from  the 
walls  of  Amsterdam.  In  the  first  madness  of  despair  the 
devoted  people  turned  their  rage  against  the  most  illustrious 
of  their  fellow-citizens.  De  Ruyter  was  saved  with  difficulty 
from  assassins.  De  Witt  was  torn  to  pieces  by  an  infuriated 
rabble.  No  hope  was  left  to  the  Commonwealth,  save  in 
the  dauntless,  the  ardent,  the  indefatigable,  the  unconquer- 
able spirit  which  glowed  under  the  frigid  demeanor  of  the 
young  Prince  of  Orange. 

That  great  man  rose  at  once  to  the  full  dignity  of  his 
part,  and  approved  himself  a worthy  descendant  of  the  line 
of  heroes,  who  had  vindicated  the  liberties  of  Europe  against 
the  house  of  Austria.  Nothing  could  shake  his  fidelity  to 
his  country,  not  his  close  connection  with  the  royal  family 
of  England,  not  the  most  earnest  solicitations,  not  the  most 
tempting  offers.  The  spirit  of  the  nation,  that  spirit  which 
had  maintained  the  great  conflict  against  the  gigantic  power 
of  Philip,  revived  in  all  its  strength.  Counsels,  such  as  are 
inspired  by  a generous  despair,  and  are  almost  always  fol- 
lowed by  a speedy  dawn  of  hope,  were  gravely  concerted 
by  the  statesmen  of  Holland.  To  open  their  dykes*  to 


Sift  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


29i 

their  ships,  to  leave  their  country,  with  all  its  miracles  of 
art  and  industry,  its  cities,  its  canals,  its  villas,  its  pastures, 
and  its  tulip  gardens,  buried  under  the  waves  of  the  German 
ocean,  to  bear  to  a distant  climate  their  Calvinistic  faith 
and  their  old  Batavian  liberties,  to  fix,  perhaps  with  happier 
auspices,  the  new  Stadthouse  of  their  Commonwealth,  un- 
der other  stars,  and  amidst  a strange  vegetation,  in  the 
Spice  Islands  of  the  Eastern  seas ; such  were  the  plans  which 
they  had  the  spirit  to  form,  and  it  is  seldom  that  men  who 
have  the  spirit  to  form  such  plans  are  reduced  to  the  neces- 
sity of  executing  them. 

The  Allies  had,  during  a short  period,  obtained  success 
beyond  their  hopes.  This  was  their  auspicious  moment. 
They  neglected  to  improve  it.  It  passed  away ; and  it  re- 
turned no  more.  The  Prince  of  Orange  arrested  the  pro- 
gress of  the  French  armies.  Lewis  returned  to  be  amused 
and  flattered  at  Versailles.  The  country  was  under  water. 
The  winter  approached.  The  weather  became  stormy. 
The  fleet  of  the  combined  kings  could  no  longer  keep  the 
sea.  The  republic  had  obtained  a respite  ; and  the  circum- 
stances were  such  that  a respite  was,  in  a military  view, 
important,  in  a political  view  almost  decisive. 

The  alliance  against  Holland,  formidable  as  it  was,  was 
yet  of  such  a nature  that  it  could  not  succeed  at  all,  unless 
it  succeeded  at  once.  The  English  Ministers  could  not 
carry  on  the  war  without  money.  They  could  legally  ob- 
tain money  only  from  the  Parliament ; and  they  were  most 
unwilling  to  call  the  Parliament  together.  The  measures 
which  Charles  had  adopted  at  home  were  even  more  unpopu- 
lar than  his  foreign  policy.  He  had  bound  himself  by  a 
treaty  with  Lewis  to  re-establish  the  Catholic  religion  in 
England ; and,  in  pursuance  of  this  design,  he  had  entered 
on  the  same  path  which  his  brother  afterwards  trod  with 
greater  obstinacy  to  a more  fatal  end.  The  King  had  an- 
nulled, by  his  own  sole  authority,  the  laws  against  Catholics 
and  other  dissenters.  The  matter  of  the  Declaration  of  In- 
dulgence exasperated  one  half  of  his  subjects,  and  the  man- 
ner the  other  half.  Liberal  men  would  have  rejoiced  to  see 
a toleration  granted,  at  least  to  all  Protestant  sects.  Many 
high  churchmen  had  no  objection  to  the  King’s  dispensing 
power.  But  a tolerant  act  done  in  an  unconstitutional  way 
excited  the  opposition  of  all  who  were  zealous  either  of  the 
Church  or  for  the  privileges  of  the  people,  that  is  to  say,  of 
ninety-nine  Englishmen  out  of  a hundred.  The  ministers 


292 


MACAULAYks  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


were,  therefore,  most  im willing  to  meet  the  Houses.  Law- 
less and  desperate  as  their  counsels  were,  the  boldest  of  them 
had  too  much  value  for  their  neck  to  think  of  resorting  to 
benevolences,  privy-seals,  ship-money,  or  any  of  the  other 
unlawful  modes  of  extortion  which  had  been  familiar  to  the 
preceding  age.  The  audacious  fraud  of  shutting  up  the 
Exchequer  furnished  them  with  about  twelve  hundred  thou- 
sand pounds,  a sum,  which,  even  in  better  hands  than  theirs* 
would  not  have  sufficed  for  the  war-charges  of  a single  year., 
And  this  was  a step  which  could  never  be  repeated,  a step 
wdiich,  like  most  breaches  of  public  faith,  was  speedily  found 
to  have  caused  pecuniary  difficulties  greater  than  those 
which  it  removed.  All  the  money  that  could  be  raised  wTas 
gone ; Holland  was  not  conquered ; and  the  King  had  no 
resource  but  in  a Parliament. 

Had  a general  election  taken  place  at  this  crisis,  it  is 
probable  that  the  country  would  have  sent  up  representa- 
tives as  resolutely  hostile  to  the  Court  as  those  who  met  in 
November,  1640 ; that  the  whole  domestic  and  foreign  pol- 
icy of  the  Government  would  have  been  instantly  changed-; 
and  that  the  members  of  the  Cabal  would  have  expiated 
their  crimes  on  Tower  Hill.  But  the  House  of  Commons 
was  still  the  same  which  had  been  elected  twelve  years  be- 
fore, in  the  midst  of  the  transports  of  joy,  repentance,  and 
loyalty  which  followed  the  Restoration ; and  no  pains  had 
been  spared  to  attach  it  to  tlm  Court  by  places,  pensions, 
and  bribes.  To  the  great  mass  of  the  people  it  was  scarcely 
less  odious  than  the  Cabinet  itself.  Yet,  though  it  did  not 
immediately  proceed  to  those  strong  measures  which  a new 
House  would  in  all  probability  have  adopted,  it  was  sullen 
and  unmanageable,  and  undid,  slowly  ‘ndeed,  and  by  degrees, 
but  most  effectually,  all  that  the  Ministers  had  done.  In 
one  session  it  annihilated  their  system  of  internal  govern- 
Jnent.  In  a second  session  it  gave  a death  blow  to  their 
foreign  policy. 

The  dispensing  power  was  the  first  object  of  attack. 
The  Commons  would  not  expressly  approve  the  war ; but 
neither  did  they  as  yet  expressly  condemn  it ; and  they  were 
even  willing  to  grant  the  King  a supply  for  the  purpose  oi 
continuing  hostilities,  on  condition  that  he  would  redress 
internal  grievances,  among  which  the  Declaration  of  Indul- 
gence held  the  foremost  place. 

Shaftesbury,  who  was  Chancellor,  saw  that  the  game 
was  up,  that  he  had  got  all  that  was  to  be  got  by  siding  with 


gm  WTLLTAM  TEMPLE. 


2SB 


despotism  and  Popery,  and  that  it  was  high  time  to  think 
of  being  a demagogue  and  a good  Protestant.  The  Lord 
Treasurer  Clifford  was  marked  out  by  his  boldness,  by  his 
openness,  by  his  zeal  for  the  Catholic  religion,  by  something 
which,  compared  with  the  villany  of  his  colleagues,  might 
almost  be  called  honesty,  to  be  the  scapegoat  of  the  whole 
conspiracy.  Tlit?  King  came  in  person  to  the  House  of  Peers 
for  the  purpose  of  requesting  their  Lordships  to  mediate  be- 
tween him  and  the  Commons  touching  the  Declaration  of 
Indulgence.  He  remained  in  the  House  while  his  speech 
was  taken  into  consideration  ; a common  practice  with  him ; 
for  the  debates  amused  his  sated  mind,  and  were  sometimes, 
he  used  to  say,  as  good  as  a comedy.  A more  sudden  turn 
his  Majesty  had  certainly  never  seen  in  any  comedy  of  in- 
trigue, either  at  his  own  play-house,  or  at  the  Duke’s,  than 
that  which  this  memorable  debate  produced.  The  Lord 
Treasurer  spoke  with  characteristic  ardor  and  intrepidity  in 
defence  of  the  Declaration.  When  he  sat  down,  the  Lord 
Chancellor  rose  from  the  woolsack,  and,  to  the  amazement 
of  the  King  and  of  the  House,  attacked  Clifford,  attacked 
the  Declaration  for  which  he  had  himself  spoken  in  Coun- 
cil, gave  up  the  whole  policy  of  the  Cabinet,  and  declared 
himself  on  the  side  of  the  House  of  Commons.  Even  that 
age  had  not  witnessed  so  portentous  a display  of  impudence. 

The  King,  by  the  advicl  of  the  French  Court,  which 
cared  much  more  about  the  war  on  the  Continent  than 
about  the  conversion  of  the  English  heretics,  determined  to 
save  his  foreign  policy  at  the  expense  of  his  plans  in  favor 
of  the  Catholic  church.  He  obtained  a supply;  and  in  re- 
turn for  this  concession  he  cancelled  the  Declaration  of  In- 
dulgence and  made  a formal  renunciation  of  the  dispensing 
power  before  he  prorogued  the  Houses. 

But  it  was  no  more  in  his  power  to  go  on  with  the  war 
than  to  maintain  his  arbitrary  system  at  home.  His  Min* 
istry,  betrayed  within,  and  fiercely  assailed  from  without, 
went  rapidly  to  pieces.  Clifford  threw  down  the  white 
staff,  and  retired  to  the  woods  of  Ugbrook,  vowing,  with 
bitter  tears,  that  he  would  never  again  see  that  turbulent 
city,  and  that  perfidious  Court.  Shaftesbury  was  ordered 
to  deliver  up  the  Great  Seal,  and  instantly  carried  over  his 
front  of  brass  and  his  tongue  of  poison  to  the  ranks  of  the 
Opposition.  The  remaining  members  of  the  Cabal  had 
neither  the  capacity  of  the  late  Chancellor,  nor  the  courage 
and  enthusiasm  of  the  late  Treasurer.  They  were  not  only 


294  macattlay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

unable  to  carry  on  their  former  projects,  but  began  to  trem- 
ble for  their  own  lands  and  heads.  The  Parliament,  as  soon 
as  it  again  met,  began  to  murmur  against  the  alliance  with 
France  and  the  war  with  Holland ; and  the  murmur  gradu- 
ally swelled  into  a fierce  and  terrible  clamor.  Strong  reso- 
lutions were  adopted  against  Lauderdale  and  Buckingham. 
Articles  of  impeachment  were  exhibited  against  Arlington. 
The  Triple  Alliance  was  mentioned  with  reverence  in  every 
debate ; and  the  eyes  of  all  men  were  turned  towards  tho 
quiet  orchard,  where  the  author  of  that  great  league  was 
amusing  himself  with  reading  and  gardening. 

Temple  was  ordered  to  attend  the  King,  and  was  charged 
with  the  office  of  negotiating  a separate  peace  with  Hol- 
land. The  Spanish  Ambassador  at  the  Court  of  London 
had  been  employed  by  the  States-General  to  treat  in  their 
name.  With  him  Temple  came  to  a speedy  agreement;  and 
in  three  days  a treaty  was  concluded. 

The  highest  honors  of  the  State  were  now  within  Temple’s 
reach.  After  the  retirement  of  Clifford,  the  white  staff  had 
been  delivered  to  Thomas  Osborne,  soon  after  created  Earl 
of  Danby,  who  was  related  to  Lady  Temple,  and  had,  many 
years  earlier,  travelled  and  played  tennis  with  Sir  William. 
Danby  was  an  interested  and  dishonest  man,  but  by  no 
means  destitute  of  abilities  or  of  judgment.  He  was,  indeed, 
a far  better  adviser  than  any  in  whom  Charles  had  hitherto 
reposed  confidence.  Clarendon  was  a man  of  another  gen- 
eration, and  did  not  in  the  least  understand  the  society 
which  he  had  to  govern.  The  members  of  the  Cabal  were 
ministers  of  a foreign  power,  and  enemies  of  the  Established 
Church ; and  had  in  consequence  raised  against  themselves 
and  their  master  an  irresistible  storm  of  national  and  reli- 
gious hatred.  Danby  wishecf  to  strengthen  and  extend  the 
prerogative;  but  he  had  the  sense  to  see  that  this  could  be 
dene  only  by  a complete  change  of  system.  He  knew  the 
English  people  and  the  House  of  Commons ; and  he  knew 
that  the  course  which  Charles  had  recently  taken,  if  obsti- 
nately pursued,  might  well  end  before  the  windows  of  the 
Banqueting-House.  He  saw  that  the  true  policy  of  the 
Cr^wn  was  to  ally  itself,  not  with  the  feeble,  the  hated,  the 
down-trodden  Catholics,  but  with  the  powerful,  the  wealthy, 
the  popular,  the  dominant  Church  of  England ; to  trust  for 
aid,  not  to  a foreign  Prince  whose  name  was  hateful  to  the 
British  nation,  and  whose  succors  could  be  obtained  only  on 
terms  of  vassalage,  but  to  the  old  Cavalier  party,  to 


SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


295 


landed  gentry,  the  clergy,  and  the  universities.  By  rallying 
round  the  throne  the  whole  strength  of  the  Royalists  and 
High-Churchmen,  and  by  using  without  stint  all  the  re- 
sources of  corruption,  he  flattered  himself  that  he  could 
manage  the  Parliament.  That  he  failed  is  to  be  attributed 
less  to  himself  than  to  his  master.  Of  the  disgraceful  deal- 
ings which  were  still  kept  up  with  the  F rench  Court,  Danby 
deserved  little  or  none  of  the  blame,  though  he  suffered  the 
whole  punishment. 

Danby,  with  great  parliamentary  talents,  had  paid  little 
attention  to  European  politics,  and  wished  for  the  help  of 
some  person  on  whom  he  could  rely  in  the  foreign  departr 
ment.  A plan  was  accordingly  arranged  for  making  Temple 
Secretary  of  State.  Arlington  was  the  only  member  of  the 
Cabal  who  still  held  olfice  in  England.  The  temper  of  the 
.House  of  Commons  made  it  necessary  to  remove  him,  or 
rather  to  require  him  to  sell  out ; for  at  that  time  the  great 
offices  of  State  were  bought  and  sold  as  commissions  in  the 
army  now  are.  Temple  was  informed  that  he  should  have 
the  Seals  if  he  would  pay  Arlington  six  thousand  pounds. 
The  transaction  had  nothing  in  it  discreditable,  according  to 
the  notions  of  that  age,  and  the  investment  would  have  been 
a good  one  ; for  we  im  agine  that  at  that  time  the  gains  which 
a Secretary  of  State  might  make,  without  doing  anything 
considered  as  improper,  were  very  considerable.  Temple’s 
friends  offered  to  lend  him  the  money ; but  he  was  fully  de- 
termined not  to  take  a post  of  so  much  responsibility  in 
times  so  agitated,  and  under  a Prince  on  whom  so  little  re- 
liance could  be  placed,  and  accepted  the  embassy  to  the 
Hague,  leaving  Arlington  to  find  another  purchaser. 

Before  Temple  left  England  he  had  a long  audience  of 
the  King,  to  whom  he  spoke  with  great  severity  of  the  meas- 
ures adopted  by  the  late  Ministry.  The  King  owned  that 
things  had  turned  out  ill.  “ But,”  said  he,  “ if  I had  been 
well  served,  I might  have  made  a good  business  of  it.” 
Temple  was  alarmed  at  this  language,  and  inferred  from  it 
that  the  system  of  the  Cabal  had  not  been  abandoned,  but 
only  suspended.  He  therefore  thought  it  his  duty  to  go,  as 
he  expressed  it,  “ to  the  bottom  of  the  matter.”  He  strongly 
represented  to  the  King  the  impossibility  of  establishing 
either  absolute  government,  or  the  Catholic  religion  in  Eng- 
land ; and  concluded  by  repeating  an  observation  which  he 
had  heard  at  Brussels  from  M.  Gourville,  a very  intelligent 
Frenchman  well  known  to  Charles  : “ A King  of  England,” 


296  ^agaulay’s  misucllan^tgus  writings. 

said  Gourville,  “ who  is  willing  to  be  the  man  of  his  people, 
is  the  greatest  king  in  the  world,  but  if  he  wishes  to  be 
more,  by  heaven  he  is  nothing  at  all ! ” The  King  betrayed 
some  symptoms  of  impatience  during  this  lecture ; but  at 
last  he  laid  his  hand  kindly  on  Temple’s  shoulder,  and  said, 
“ You  are  right,  and  so  is  Gourville ; and  I will  be  the  man 
of  my  people.”  * 

With  this  assurance  Temple  repaired  to  the  Hague  in 
July,  1674.  Holland  was  now  secure,  and  France  was  sur- 
rounded on  every  side  by  enemies.  Spain  and  the  Empire 
were  in  arms  for  the  purpose  of  compelling  Lewis  to  aban- 
don all  that  he  had  acquired  since  the  treaty  of  the  Pyre- 
nees. A congress  for  the  purpose  of  putting  an  end  to  the 
W’ar  was  opened  at  Nimeguen  under  the  mediation  of  Eng- 
land in  1675 ; and  to  that  congress  Temple  was  deputed. 
The  work  of  conciliation,  however,  went  on  slowly.  The 
belligerent  powers  were  still  sanguine,  and  the  mediating 
power  was  unsteady  and  insecure. 

In  the  mean  time  the  Opposition  in  England  became  more 
and  more  formidable,  and  seemed  fully  determined  to  force 
the  King  into  a war  with  France.  Charles  was  desirous  of 
making  some  appointments  which  might  strengthen  the  ad- 
ministration and  conciliate  the  confidence  of  the  public. 
No  man  was  more  esteemed  by  the  nation  than  Temple; 
yet  he  had  never  been  concerned  m any  opposition  to  any 
government.  In  July,  1677,  he  was  sent  for  from  Nime- 
guen.  Charles  received  him  with  caresses,  earnestly  pressed 
him  to  receive  the  seals  of  Secretary  of  State,  and  promised 
to  bear  half  the  charge  of  buying  out  the  present  holder. 
Temple  was  charmed  by  the  kindness  and  politeness  of  the 
King’s  manner,  and  by  the  liveliness  of  his  Majesty’s  conver- 
sation ; but  his  prudence  was  not  to  be  so  laid  asleep.  He 
calmly  and  steadily  excused  himself.  The  King  affected  to 
treat  his  excuses  as  mere  jests,  and  gayly  said,  “ Go ; get  you 
gone  to  Sheen.  We  shall  have  no  good  of  you  till  you 
have  been  there ; and  when  you  have  rested  yourself,  come 
up  again.”  Temple  withdrew  and  staid  two  days  at  his 
villa,  but  returned  to  town  in  the  same  mind ; and  the  King 
was  forced  to  consent  at  least  to  a delay. 

But  while  Temple  thus  carefully  shunned  the  responsi- 
bility of  bearing  a part  in  the  general  direction  of  affairs, 
he  gave  a signal  proof  of  that  never-failing  sagacity  tvhich 
enabled  him  to  find  out  ways  of  distinguishing  himself 
Without  risk.  He  had  a principal  share  in  bringing  about  an 


SIB  WIXLXAM  TStfPIJS. 


29? 


fcvent  which  was  at  the  time  hailed  with  general  satisfac- 
tion, and  which  subsequently  produced  consequences  of  the 
highest  importance.  This  was  the  marriage  of  the  Prince 
of  Orange  and  the  Lady  Mary. 

In  the  following  year  Temple  returned  to  the  Hague  ; 
and  thence  he  was  ordered,  in  the  close  of  1678,  to  repair  to 
Nimeguen,  for  the  purpose  of  signing  the  hollow  and  unsat- 
isfactory treaty  by  which  the  distractions  of  Europe  were 
for  a short  time  suspended.  He  grumbled  much  at  being 
required  to  affix  his  name  to  bad  articles  which  he  had  not 
framed,  and  still  more  at  having  to  travel  in  very  cold 
weather.  After  all,  a difficulty  of  etiquette  prevented  him 
from  signing,  and  he  returned  to  the  Hague.  Scarcely  had 
he  arrived  there  when  he  received  intelligence  that  the  King, 
whose  embarrassments  were  greater  than  ever,  was  fully 
resolved  to  appoint  him  Secretary  of  State.  He  a third 
time  declined  that  high  post,  and  began  to  make  prepara- 
tions for  a journey  to  Italy;  thinking,  doubtless,  that  he 
should  spend  his  time  much  more  pleasantly  among  pictures 
and  ruins  than  in  such  a whirlpool  of  political  and  religious 
frenzy  as  was  then  raging  in  London. 

But  the  King  was  in  extreme  necessity,  and  was  no 
longer  to  be  so  easily  put  off.  Temple  received  positive 
orders  to  repair  instantly  to  England.  He  obeyed,  and 
found  the  country  in  a state  even  more  fearful  than  that 
which  he  had  pictured  to  hijjaselL 

Those  are  terrible  conjunctures,  when  the  discontents  of 
of  a nation,  not  light  and  capricious  discontents,  but  dis- 
contents which  have  been  steadily  increasing  during  a long 
series  of  years,  have  attained  their  full  maturity.  The  dis- 
cerning few  predict  the  approach  of  these  conjunctures,  but 
predict  in  vain.  To  the  many,  the  evil  season  comes  as  a 
total  eclipse  of  the  sun  at  noon  comes  to  a people  of  savages. 
Society  which,  but  a short  time  before,  was  in  a state  of 
perfect  repose,  is  on  a sudden  agitated  with  the  most  fearfu 
convulsions,  and  seems  to  be  on  the  verge  of  dissolution; 
and  the  rulers  who,  till  the  mischief  was  beyond  the  reach 
of  all  ordinary  remedies,  had  never  bestowed  one  thought 
)n  its  existence,  stand  bewildered  and  panic-stricken,  with- 
out hope  or  resource,  in  the  midst  of  the  confusion.  One 
such  conjuncture  this  generation  has  seen.  God  grant  that 
we  may  never  see  another  ! At  such  a conjuncture  it  was 
that  Temple  landed  on  English  ground  in  the  beginning 
of  1679. 


298  macaulay\s  miscellaneous  writings. 

The  Parliament  had  obtained  a glimpse  of  the  King’s 
dealings  with  France  ; and  their  anger  had  been  unjustly- 
directed  against  Dauby,  whose  conduct  as  to  that  matter 
had  been,  on  the  whole,  deserving  of  praise  rather  than  of 
censure.  The  Popish  Plot,  the  murder  of  Godfrey,  the  in- 
famous inventions  of  Oates,  the  discovery  of  Colman’s  let- 
ters, had  excited  the  nation  to  madness.  All  the  disaffection 
which  had  been  generated  by  eighteen  years  of  misgovern- 
ment  had  come  to  the  birth  together.  At  this  moment  the 
King  had  been  advised  to  dissolve  that  Parliament  which  had 
been  elected  just  after  his  restoration,  and  which,  though  its 
composition  had  since  that  time  been  greatly  altered,  was 
still  far  more  deeply  imbued  with  the  old  cavalier  spirit 
than  any  that  had  preceded,  or  that  was  likely  to  follow  it. 
The  general  election  had  commenced,  and  was  proceeding 
with  a degree  of  excitement  never  before  known.  The  tide 
ran  furiously  against  the  Court.  It  was  clear  that  a major- 
ity of  the  New  House  of  Commons  would  be,  to  use  a word 
which  came  into  fashion  a few  months  later,  decided  Whigs. 
Charles  had  found  it  necessary  to  yield  to  the  violence  of  the 
public  feeling.  The  Duke  of  York  was  on  the  point  of  re- 
tiring to  Holland.  “ I never,”  says  Temple,  who  had  seen 
the  abolition  of  monarchy,  the  dissolution  of  the  Long  Par- 
liament, the  fall  of  the  Protectorate,  the  declaration  of 
Monk  against  the  Rump,  “ I never  saw  greater  disturbance 
in  men’s  minds.” 

The  King  now  with  the  utmost  urgency  besought  Tem- 
ple to  take  the  seals.  The  pecuniary  part  of  the  arrange 
tnent  no  longer  presented  any  difficulty ; and  Sir  William 
was  not  quite  so  decided  in  his  refusal  as  he  had  formerly 
been.  He  took  three  days  to  consider  the  posture  of  affairs, 
and  to  examine  his  own  feelings ; and  he  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  “ the  scene  was  unfit  for  such  an  actor  as  he 
knew  himself  to  be.”  Yet  he  felt  that,  by  refusing  help  to 
the  King  at  such  a crisis,  he  might  give  much  offence  and 
incur  much  censure.  He  shaped  his  course  with  his  usual 
dexterity.  He  affected  to  be  very  desirous  of  a seat  in  Par- 
liament ; yet  he  contrived  to  be  an  unsuccessful  candidate ; 
and,  when  all  the  writs  were  returned,  he  represented  that 
it  would  be  useless  for  him  to  take  the  seals  till  he  could 
procure  admittance  to  the  House  of  Commons ; and  in  this 
manner  he  succeeded  in  avoiding  the  greatness  which  others 
desired  to  thrust  upon  him. 

The  Parliament  met ; and  the  violence  of  its  proceedings 


SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


299 


surpassed  all  expectation.  The  Long  Parliament  itself, 
with  much  greater  provocation,  had  at  its  commencement 
been  less  violent.  The  Treasurer  was  instantly  driven 
from  office,  impeached,  sent  to  the  Tower.  Sharp  and 
vehement  votes  were  passed  on  the  subject  of  the  Popish 
Plot.  The  Commons  were  prepared  to  go  much  further,  to 
wrest  from  the  King  his  prerogative  of  mercy  in  cases  of 
high  political  crimes,  and  to  alter  the  succession  of  the 
Crown.  Charles  was  thoroughly  perplexed  and  dismayed. 
Temple  saw  him  almost  daily,  and  thought  him  impressed 
with  a deep  sense  of  his  errors,  and  of  the  miserable  state 
into  which  they  had  brought  him.  Their  conferences  be- 
came longer  and  more  confidential : and  Temple  began  to 
flatter  himself  with  the  hope  that  he  might  be  able  to  recon- 
cile parties  at  home  as  he  had  reconciled  hostile  States 
abroad;  that  he  might  be  able  to  suggest  a plan  which 
should  allay  all  heats,  efface  the  memory  of  all  past  griev- 
ances, secure  the  nation  from  misgovernment,  and  protect 
the  Crown  against  the  encroachments  of  Parliament. 

Temple’s  plan  was  that  the  existing  Privy  Council,  which 
consisted  of  fifty  members,  should  be  dissolved,  that  there 
should  no  longer  be  a small  interior  council,  like  that  which 
is  now  designated  as  the  Cabinet,  that  a new  Privy  Council 
of  thirty  members  should  be  appointed,  and  that  the  King 
should  pledge  himself  to  govern  by  the  constant  advice  of 
this  body,  to  suffer  all  his  affairs  of  every  kind  to  be  freely 
debated  there,  and  not  to  reserve  any  part  of  the  public 
business  for  a secret  committee. 

Fifteen  of  the  members  of  this  new  council  were  to  be 
great  officers  of  State.  The  other  fifteen  were  to  be  inde- 
pendent noblemen  and  gentlemen  of  the  greatest  weight  in 
the  country.  In  appointing  them  particular  regard  was  to 
be  had  to  the  amount  of  their  property.  The  whole  annual 
income  of  the  counsellors  was  estimated  at  300,000£.  The 
annual  income  of  all  the  members  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons was  not  supposed  to  exceed  400,000£.  The  appoint- 
ment of  wealthy  counsellors  Temple  describes  as  “ a chief 
regard,  necessary  to  this  constitution.” 

This  plan  was  the  subject  of  frequent  conversation  be- 
tween the  King  and  Temple.  After  a month  passed  in 
discussions  to  which  no  third  person  appeared  to  have  been 
privy,  Charles  declared  himself  satisfied  of  the  expediency 
of  the  proposed  measure,  and  resolved  to  carry  it  into 
effect  . * ~ *■  — : , - ry  - t ~ , 


800  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

It  is  much  to  be  regretted  that  Temple  has  left  us  no 
account  of  these  conferences.  Historians  have,  therefore, 
been  left  to  form  their  own  conjectures  as  to  the  object  of 
this  very  extraordinary  plan,  “ this  Constitution,”  as  Tern* 
pie  himself  calls  it.  And  we  cannot  say  that  any  ex  planation 
which  has  yet  been  given  seems  to  us  quite  satisfactory. 
Indeed,  almost  all  the  writers  whom  we  have  consulted  ap- 
pear to  consider  the  change  as  merely  a change  of  adminis- 
tration, and  so  considering  it,  they  generally  applaud  it. 
Mr.  Courtenay,  who  has  evidently  examined  this  subject 
with  more  attention  than  has  often  been  bestowed  upon  it, 
seems  to  think  Temple’s  scheme  very  strange,  unintelligible, 
and  absurd.  It  is  with  very  great  diffidence  that  wTe  offer 
our  own  solution  of  what  we  have  always  thought  one  of  the 
great  riddles  of  English  history.  We  are  strongly  inclined 
to  suspect  that  the  appointment  of  the  new  Privy  Council 
was  really  a much  more  remarkable  event  than  has  gener- 
ally been  supposed,  and  that  what  Temple  had  in  view  was 
to  effect,  under  color  of  a change  of  administration,  a per- 
manent change  in  the  Constitution. 

The  plan,  considered  merely  as  a plan  for  the  formation 
of  a Cabinet,  is  so  obviously  inconvenient,  that  we  cannot 
easily  believe  this  to  have  been  Temple’s  chief  object.  The 
number  of  the  new  Council  alone  would  have  been  a most 
serious  objection.  The  largest  cabinets  of  modern  times 
have  not,  we  believe,  consisted  of  more  than  fifteen  mem- 
bers. Even  this  number  has  generally  been  thought  too 
large.  The  Marquess  Wellesley,  whose  judgment  on  a ques- 
tion of  executive  administration  is  entitled  to  as  much  re- 
spect as  that  of  any  statesman  that  England  ever  produced, 
expressed,  during  the  ministerial  negotiations  of  the  year 
1812,  his  conviction  that  even  thirteen  was  an  inconve- 
niently large  number.  But  in  a Cabinet  of  thirty  members 
what  chance  could  there  be  of  finding  unity,  secrecy,  expe- 
dition, any  of  the  qualities  which  such  a body  ought  to 
possess  ? If,  indeed,  the  members  of  such  a Cabinet  were 
closely  bound  together  by  interest,  if  they  all  had  a deep 
stake  in  the  permanence  of  the  Administration,  if  the  ma- 
jority were  dependent  on  a small  number  of  leading  men, 
the  thirty  might  perhaps  act  as  a smaller  number  would  act, 
though  more  slowly,  more  awkwardly,  and  with  more  risk 
of  improper  disclosures.  But  the  Council  wSich  Temple- 
proposed  was  so  framed  that  if,  instead  of  thirty  members, 
it  had  contained  only  ten,  it  would  stilT  have  been  the  most 


Slit  WILLIAM  TEMPLE* 


301 


unwieldy  and  discordant  Cabinet  that  ever  sat.  One  half  of 
the  members  were  to  be  persons  holding  no  office,  persons 
who  had  no  motive  to  compromise  their  opinions,  or  to  take 
any  share  of  the  responsibility  of  an  unpopular  measuie, 
persons,  therefore,  who  might  be  expected,  as  often  as  there 
might  be  a crisis  requiring  the  most  cordial  co-operation, 
to  draw  off  from  the  rest,  and  to  throw  every  difficulty  in 
the  way  of  the  public  business.  The  circumstance  that  they 
were  men  of  enormous  private  wealth  only  made  the  matter 
worse.  The  House  of  Commons  is  a checking  body;  and 
therefore  it  is  desirable  that  it  should,  to  a great  extent, 
consist  of  men  of  independent  fortune,  who  receive  nothing 
and  expect  nothing  from  the  Government.  But  with  ex- 
ecutive boards  the  case  is  quite  different.  Their  business 
is  not  to  check,  but  to  act.  The  very  same  things,  therefore, 
which  are  the  virtues  of  Parliaments  may  be  vices  in  Cabi- 
nets. W e can  hardly  conceive  a greater  curse  to  the  coun- 
try than  an  Administration,  the  members  of  which  should 
be  as  perfectly  independent  of  each  other,  and  as  little  under 
the  necessity  of  making  mutual  concessions,  as  the  repre- 
sentatives of  London  and  Devonshire  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons are  and  ought  to  be.  Now  Temple’s  new  Council 
was  to  contain  fifteen  members  who  were  to  hold  no  offices, 
and  the  average  amount  of  whose  private  estates  was  ten 
thousand  pounds  a year,  an  income  which,  in  proportion  to 
the  wants  of  a man  of  rank  of  that  period,  was  at  least 
equal  to  thirty  thousand  a year  in  our  time.  Was  it  to  be 
expected  that  such  men  would  gratuitously  take  on  them- 
selves the  labor  and  responsibility  of  Ministers,  and  the 
unpopularity  which  the  best  Ministers  must  sometimes  be 
prepared  to  brave  ? Could  there  be  any  doubt  that  an  Op- 
position would  soon  be  formed  within  the  Cabinet  itself, 
and  that  the  consequence  would  be  disunion,  altercation, 
tardiness  in  operations,  the  divulging  of  secrets,  everything 
most  alien  from  the  nature  of  an  executive  council  ? 

Ls  it  possible  to  imagine  that  considerations  so  grave  and 
so  obvious  should  have  altogether  escaped  the  notice  of  a 
man  of  Temple’s  sagacity  and  experience?  One  of  two 
things  appears  to  us  to  be  certain,  either  that  his  project  has 
been  misunderstood,  or  that  his  talents  for  public  affairs  have 
been  overrated. 

We  lean  to  the  opinion  that  his  project  has  been  mis- 
understood. His  new  Council,  as  we  have  shown,  would 
have  been  an  exceedingly  bad  Cabinet,  The  inference  which 


802 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


we  are  inclined  to  draw  is  this,  that  he  meant  his  Councn 
to  serve  some  other  purpose  than  that  of  a mere  Cabinet. 
Barillon  used  four  or  five  words,  which  contain,  we  think, 
the  key  of  the  whole  mystery.  Mr.  Courtenay  calls  them 
pithy  words ; but  he  does  not,  if  we  are  right,  apprehend 
their  whole  force.  “ Ce  sont,”  said  Barillon,  “des  Etats, 
non  des  conseils.” 

In  order  clearly  to  understand  what  we  imagine  to  have 
been  Temple’s  views,  the  reader  must  remember  that  the 
Government  of  England  was  at  that  moment,  and  had  been 
during  nearly  eighty  years,  in  a state  of  transition.  A 
change,  not  the  less  real  or  the  less  extensive  because  dis- 
guised under  ancient  names  and  forms,  was  in  constant  pro- 
gress. The  theory  of  the  Constitution,  the  fundamental 
laws  which  fix  the  powers  of  the  three  branches  of  the  legis- 
lature, underwent  no  material  change  between  the  time  of 
Elizabeth  and  the  time  of  William  the  Third.  The  most 
celebrated  laws  of  the  seventeenth  century  on  those  subjects, 
the  Petition  of  Right,  the  Declaration  of  Right,  are  purely 
declaratory.  They  purport  to  be  merely  recitals  of  the  old 
polity  of  England.  They  do  not  establish  free  government 
as  a salutary  improvement,  but  claim  it  as  an  undoubted  and 
immemorial  inheritance.  Nevertheless,  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that,  during  the  period  of  which  wTe  speak,  all  the 
mutual  relations  of  all  the  orders  of  the  State  did  practically 
undergo  an  entire  change.  The  letter  of  the  law  might  be 
unaltered ; but  at  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
the  power  of  the  Crown  was,  in  fact,  decidedly  predominant 
in  the  State  ; and  at  the  end  of  that  century  the  power  of 
Parliament,  and  especially  of  the  Lower  House,  had  become 
in  fact,  decidedly  predominant.  At  the  beginning  of  the 
century,  the  sovereign  perpetually  violated,  with  little  or  no 
opposition,  the  clear  privileges  of  Parliament.  At  the  close 
of  the  century,  the  Parliament  had  virtually  drawn  to  itself 
just  as  much  as  it  chose  of  the  prerogative  of  the  Crown. 
The  sovereign  retained  the  shadow  of  that  authority  of 
which  the  Tudors  had  held  the  substance.  lie  had  a legis- 
lative veto  which  he  never  ventured  to  exercise,  a power  of 
appointing  Ministers,  whom  an  address  of  the  Commons 
could  at  any  moment  force  him  to  discard,  a power  of  de- 
claring war  which,  without  Parliamentary  support,  could 
not  be  carried  on  for  a single  day.  The  Houses  of  Parlia- 
ment were  now  not  merely  legislative  assemblies,  not  merely 
checking  assemblies.  They  were  great  Councils  of  State, 


SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


303 


whose  voice,  when  loudly  and  firmly  raised,  was  decisive  on 
all  questions  of  foreign  and  domestic  policy.  There  was  no 
part  of  the  whole  system  of  Government  with  which  they 
had  not  power  to  interfere  by  advice  equivalent  to  command ; 
and,  if  they  abstained  from  intermeddling  with  some  depart- 
ments of  the  executive  administration,  they  were  withheld 
from  doing  so  only  by  their  own  moderation,  and  by  the 
confidence  which  they  reposed  in  the  Ministers  of  the  Crown. 
There  is  perhaps  no  other  instance  in  history  of  a change  so 
complete  in  the  real  constitution  of  an  empire,  unaccom- 
panied by  any  corresponding  change  in  the  theoretical  con- 
stitution. The  disguised  transformation  of  the  Roman  com- 
monwealth into  a despotic  monarchy,  under  the  long  adminis- 
tration of  Augustus,  is  perhaps  the  nearest  parallel. 

This  great  alteration  did  not  take  place  without  strong 
and  constant  resistance  on  the  part  of  the  kings  of  the  house 
of  Stewart.  Till  1642,  that  resistance  was  generally  of  an 
open,  violent,  and  lawless  nature.  If  the  Commons  refused 
supplies,  the  sovereign  levied  a benevolence.  If  the  Com- 
mons impeached  a favorite  minister,  the  sovereign  threw  the 
chiefs  of  the  Opposition  into  prison.  Of  these  efforts  to 
keep  down  the  Parliament  by  despotic  force,  without  the 
pretext  of  law,  the  last,  the  most  celebrated,  and  the  most 
wicked  was  the  attempt  to  seize  the  five  members.  That 
attempt  was  the  signal  for  civil  war,  and  was  followed  by 
eighteen  years  of  blood  and  confusion. 

The  days  of  trouble  passed  by ; the  exiles  returned ; the 
throne  was  again  set  up  in  its  high  place  ; the  peerage  and 
the  hierarchy  recovered  their  ancient  splendor.  The  funda- 
mental laws  which  had  been  recited  in  the  Petition  of  Right 
were  again  solemnly  recognized.  The  theory  of  the  English 
constitution  was  the  same  on  the  day  when  the  hand  of 
Charles  the  Second  was  kissed  by  the  kneeling  Houses  at 
Whitehall  as  on  the  day  when  his  father  set  up  the  royal 
standard  at  Nottingham.  There  was  a short  period  of  doting 
fondness,  a hysterica  passio  of  loyal  repentance  and  love. 
But  emotions  of  this  sort  are  transitory ; and  the  interests 
on  which  depends  the  progress  of  great  societies  are  perma- 
nent. The  transport  of  reconciliation  was  soon  over ; and 
the  old  struggle  recommenced. 

The  old  struggle  recommenced ; but  not  precisely  after 
the  old  fashion.  The  sovereign  was  not  indeed  a man  whom 
any  common  warning  would  have  restrained  from  the 
grossest  violations  of  law.  But  it  was  no  common  warning 


MACAULAY*  S MISCELLANEOUS  WEITINCS. 


that  he  had  received.  All  around  him  were  the  recent  signs 
of  the  vengeance  of  an  oppressed  nation,  the  fields  on  which 
the  noblest  blood  of  the  island  had  been  poured  forth,  the 
castles  shattered  by  the  cannon  of  the  Parliamentary  armies, 
the  hall  where  sat  the  stern  tribunal  to  whose  b^r  had  been 
led,  through  lowering  ranks  of  pikemen,  the  captive  heir  of 
a hundred  kings,  the  stately  pilasters  before  which  the  great 
execution  had  been  so  fearlessly  done  in  the  face  of  heaven 
and  earth.  The  restored  Prince,  admonished  by  the  fate 
of  his  father,  never  ventured  to  attack  his  Parliaments 
with  open  and  arbitrary  violence.  It  was  at  one  time  by 
means  of  the  Parliament  itself,  at  another  time  by  means 
of  the  courts  of  law,  that  he  attempted  to  regain  for  the 
Crown  its  old  predominance.  He  began  with  great  advan- 
tages. The  Parliament  of  1661  was  called  while  the  nation 
was  still  full  of  joy  and  tenderness.  The  great  majority  of 
the  House  of  Commons  were  zealous  royalists.  All  the 
means  of  influence  which  the  patronage  of  the  Crown  af- 
forded were  used  without  limit.  Bribery  was  reduced  to  a 
system.  The  King,  when  he  could  sjDare  money  from  his 
pleasures  for  nothing  else,  could  spare  it  for  purposes  oi 
corruption.  While  the  defence  of  the  coasts  was  neglected, 
while  ships  rotted,  while  arsenals  lay  emj^ty,  while  turbulent 
crowds  of  unpaid  seamen  swarmed  in  the  streets  of  the 
seaports,  something  could  still  be  scraped  together  in  the 
Treasury  for  the  members  of  the  House  of  Commons.  The 
gold  of  France  was  largely  employed  for  the  same  purpose. 
Yet  it  was  found,  as  indeed  might  have  been  foreseen,  that 
there  is  a natural  limit  to  the  effect  which  can  be  produced 
by  means  like  these.  There  is  one  thing  which  the  most 
corrupt  senates  are  unwilling  to  sell ; and  that  is  the  power 
which  makes  them  worth  buying.  The  same  selfish  motives 
which  induced  them  to  take  a price  for  a particular  vote 
induce  them  to  oppose  every  measure  of  wdiich  the  effect 
would  be  to  lower  the  importance,  and  consequently  the 
price,  of  their  votes.  About  the  income  of  their  power,  so 
to  speak,  they  are  quite  ready  to  make  bargains.  But  they 
are  not  easily  persuaded  to  part  with  any  fragment  of  the 
principal.  It  is  curious  to  observe  how.,  during  the  long 
continuance  of  this  Parliament,  the  Pensionary  Parliament, 
as  it  was  nicknamed  by  contemporaries,  though  every  cir- 
cumstance seemed  to  be  favorable  to  the  Crown,  the  power 
of  the  Crown  was  constantly  sinking,  and  that  of  the  Com- 
mons constantly  rising.  The  meetings  of  the  Houses  were 


nm  WILLIAM  f&M^L®. 


805 


more  frequent  than  in  former  reigns  ; their  interference  was 
more  harassing  to  the  Government  than  in  former  reigns  ; 
they  had  begun  to  make  peace,  to  make  war,  to  pull  down, 
if  they  did  not  set  up,  administrations/  Already  a new 
class  of  statesmen  had  appeared,  unheard  of  before  that 
time,  but  common  ever  since.  Under  the  Tudors  and  the 
earlier  Stuarts,  it  was  generally  by  courtly  arts,  or  by 
official  skill  and  knowledge,  that  a politician  raised  him- 
self to  power.  From  the  time  of  Charles  the  Second 
down  to  our  own  days  a different  species  of  talent,  parlia- 
mentary talent,  has  been  the  most  valuable  of  all  the  quali- 
fications of  ail  English  statesman.  It  has  stood  in  the 
place  of  all  other  acquirements.  It  has  covered  ignorance, 
weakness,  rashness,  the  most  fatal  maladministration.  A 
great  negotiator  is  nothing  when  compared  with  a great 
debater ; and  a minister  who  can  make  a successful  speech 
need  trouble  himself  little  about  an  unsuccessful  expedi- 
tion. This  is  the  talent  which  has  made  judges  without 
law,  and  diplomatists  without  French,  which  has  sent  to 
the  Admiralty  men  who  did  not  know  the  stern  of  a ship 
from  her  bowsprit,  and  to  the  India  Board  men  who  did 
not  know  the  difference  between  a rupee  and  a pagoda, 
which  made  a foreign  secretary  of  Mr.  Pitt,  who,  as  George 
the  Second  said,  had  never  opened  Yattel,  and  which  was 
very  near  making  a Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  of  Mr, 
Sheridan,  who  could  not  work  a sum  in  long  division.  This 
was  the  sort  of  talent  which  raised  Clifford  from  obscurity 
to  the  head  of  affairs.  To  this  talent  Osborne,  by  birth  a 
simple  country  gentleman,  owed  his  white  staff,  his  garter, 
and  his  dukedom.  The  encroachment  of  the  power  of  the 
Parliament  on  the  power  of  the  Crown  resembled  a fatality, 
or  the  operation  of  some  great  law  of  nature.  The  will  of 
the  individual  on  the  throne,  or  of  the  individuals  in  the 
two  Houses,  seemed  to  go  for  nothing.  The  King  might  Oe 
eager  to  encroach ; yet  something  constantly  drove  him 
back..  The  Parliament  might  be  loyal,  even  servile ; yet 
something  constantly  urged  them  forward. 

These  things  were  done  in  the  green  tree.  What  then 
was  likely  to  be  done  in  the  dry  ? The  Popish  Plot  and 
the  general  election  came  together,  and  found  a people  pre- 
disposed to  the  most  violent  excitation.  The  composition 
of  the  House  of  Commons  was  changed.  The  Legislature 
was  filled  with  men  who  leaned  to  Republicanism  in  politics, 
and  to  Presbyterianism  in  religion.  They  no  sooner  met 
^ Vol.  II. — 20 


306 


MACAULAY*S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


than  they  commenced  an  attack  on  the  Government  which, 
if  successful,  must  have  made  them  supreme  in  the  State. 

Where  was  this  to  end  ? To  us  who  have  seen  the  solu- 
tion the  question  presents  few  difficulties.  But  to  a states- 
man of  the  age  of  Charles  the  Second,  to  a statesman  who 
wished,  without  depriving  the  Parliament  of  its  privileges, 
to  maintain  the  monarch  in  his  old  supremacy,  it  must  have 
appeared  very  perplexing. 

Clarendon  had,  when  Minister,  struggled,  honestly,  per- 
haps, but,  as  was  his  wont,  obstinately,  proudly,  and  offen- 
sively, against  the  growing  power  of  the  Commons.  He 
was  for  allowing  them  their  old  authority,  and  not  one  atom 
more.  He  would  never  have  claimed  for  the  Crown  a right 
to  levy  taxes  from  the  people  without  the  consent  of  Parlia- 
ment. But  when  the  Parliament,  in  the  first  Dutch  war, 
most  properly  insisted  on  knowing  how  it  was  that  the 
money  which  they  had  voted  had  produced  so  little  effect, 
and  began  to  inquire  through  what  hands  it  had  passed,  and 
on  what  services  it  had  been  expended,  Clarendon  consid- 
ered this  as  a monstrous  innovation.  He  told  the  King,  as 
he  himself  says,  “ that  he  could  not  be  too  indulgent  in  the 
defence  of  the  privileges  of  Parliament,  and  that  he  hoped 
he  would  never  violate  any  of  them ; but  he  desired  him  to 
be  equally  solicitous  to  prevent  the  excesses  in  Parliament, 
and  not  to  suffer  them  to  extend  their  jurisdiction  to  cases 
they  have  nothing  to  do  with ; and  that  to  restrain  them 
within  their  proper  bounds  and  limits  is  as  necessary  as  it 
is  to  preserve  them  from  being  invaded  ; and  that  this  was 
such  a new  encroachment  as  had  no  bottom.”  This  is  a 
single  instance.  Others  might  easily  be  given. 

The  bigotry,  the  strong  passions,  the  haughty  and  dis- 
dainful temper,  which  made  Clarendon’s  great  abilities  a 
source  of  utmost  unmixed  evil  to  himself  and  to  the  public, 
had  no  place  in  the  character  of  Temple.  To  Temple,  how- 
ever, as  well  as  to  Clarendon,  the  rapid  change  which  was 
taking  place  in  the  real  working  of  the  Constitution,  gave 
great  disquiet ; particularly  as  Temple  had  never  sat  in  the 
English  Parliament,  and  therefore  regarded  it  with  none  of 
the  predilection  which  men  naturally  feel  for  a body  to 
which  they  belong,  and  for  a theatre  on  which  their  own 
talents  have  been  advantageously  displayed. 

To  wrest  by  force  from  the  House  of  Commons  its  newly 
acquired  powers  was  impossible  ; nor  was  Temple  a man  to"' 
recommend  such  a stroke,  even  if  it  had  been  possible.  But 


SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


307 


was  it  possible  that  the  House  of  Commons  might  be 
induced  to  let  those  powers  drop  ? Was  it  possible  that,  as 
a great  revolution  had  been  effected  without  any  change  in 
the  outward  form  of  the  Government,  so  a great  counter- 
revolution might  be  effected  in  the  same  manner?  Was  it 
possible  that  the  Crown  and  the  Parliament  might  be  placed 
in  nearly  the  same  relative  position  in  which  they  had 
stood  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  and  that  this  might  be  done 
without  one  sword  drawn,  without  one  execution,  and  with 
the  general  acquiescence  of  the  nation  ? 

The  English  people — it  was  ju’obably  thus  that  Temp  .e 
argued — will  not  bear  to  be  governed  by  the  unchecked 
power  of  the  sovereign,  nor  ought  they  to  be  so  governed. 
At  present  there  is  no  check  but  the  Parliament.  The  limits 
which  separate  the  power  of  checking  those  who  govern 
from  the  power  of  governing  are  not  easily  to  be  defined. 
The  Parliament,  therefore,  supported  by  the  nation,  is  rapidly 
drawing  to  itself  all  the  powers  of  Government.  If  it  were 
posible  to  frame  some  other  check  on  the  power  of  the  Crown, 
some  check  which  might  be  less  galling  to  the  sovereign  than 
that  by  which  he  is  now  constantly  tormented,  and  yet  which 
might  appear  to  the  people  to  be  a tolerable  security  against 
maladministration,  Parliament  would  probably  meddle  less ; 
and  they  would  be  less  supported  by  public  opinion  in  their 
meddling.  That  the  King’s  hands  may  not  be  rudely  tied 
by  others,  he  must  consent  to  tie  them  lightly  himself.  That 
the  executive  administration  may  not  be  usurped  by  the 
checking  body,  something  of  the  character  of  a checking 
body  must  be  given  to  the  body  which  conducts  the  executive 
administration.  The  Parliament  is  now  arrogating  to  itself 
every  day  a larger  share  of  the  functions  of  the  Privy  Coun- 
cil. We  must  stop  the  evil  by  giving  to  the  Privy  Council 
something  of  the  constitution  of  a Parliament.  Let  the 
nation  see  that  all  the  King’s  measures  are  directed  by  a 
Cabinet  composed  of  representatives  of  every  order  in  the 
State,  by  a Cabinet  which  contains,  not  placemen  alone,  but 
independent  and  popular  noblemen  and  gentlemen  who 
have  large  estates  and  no  salaries,  and  who  are  not  likely  to 
sacrifice  the  public  walfare  in  which  they  have  a deep  stake, 
and  the  credit  which  they  have  obtained  with  the  country, 
to  the  pleasure  of  a Court  from  which  they  receive  nothing. 
When  the  ordinary  administration  is  in  such  hands  as  these, 
the  people  will  be  quite  content  to  see  the  Parliament  become, 
what  it  formerly  was,  an  extraordinary  cheek.  They  will  be 


808 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  whitings. 


quite  willing  that  the  House  of  Commons  should  meet  only 
once  in  three  years  for  a short  session,  and  should  take  as 
little  part  in  matters  of  state  as  it  did  a hundred  years  ago. 

Thus  we  believe  that  Temple  reasoned  : for  on  this  hy- 
pothesis his  scheme  is  intelligible ; and  on  any  other  hypothesis 
his  scheme  appears  to  us,  as  it  does  to  Mr.  Courtenay,  ex- 
ceedingly absurd  and  unmeaning.  This  Council  was  s'rictly 
what  Barillon  called  it,  an  Assembly  of  States.  There  are 
the  representatives  of  all  the  great  sections  of  the  community, 
of  the  Church,  of  the  law,  of  the  Peerage,  of  the  Commons. 
The  exclusion  of  one  half  of  the  counsellors  from  office 
under  the  Crown,  an  exclusion  which  is  quite  absurd  when 
we  consider  the  Council  merely  as  an  executive  board, 
becomes  at  once  perfectly  reasonable  when  we  consider  the 
Council  as  a body  intended  to  restrain  the  Crown  as  well  as 
to  exercise  the  powers  of  the  Crown,  to  perform  some  of  the 
functions  of  a Parliament  as  well  as  the  functions  of  a Cabinet. 
We  see,  too,  Avhy  Temple  dwelt  so  much  on  the  private 
wealth  of  the  members,  why  he  instituted  a comparison  be- 
tween their  united  incomes  and  the  united  incomes  of  the 
members  of  the  House  of  Commons.  Such  a parallel  would 
have  been  idle  in  the  case  of  a mere  Cabinet.  It  is  extremely 
significant  in  the  case  of  a body  intended  to  supersede  the 
House  of  Commons  in  some  very  important  functions. 

We  can  hardly  help  thinking  that  the  notion  of  this  Par- 
liament on  a small  scale  was  suggested  to  Temple  by  what 
he  had  himself  seen  in  the  United  Provinces.  The  original 
Assembly  of  the  States-General  consisted,  as  he  tells  us,  of 
above  eight  hundred  persons.  But  this  great  body  was  rep- 
resented by  a smaller  Council  of  about  thirty,  which  bore 
the  name  and  exercised  the  powers  of  the  States-General. 
At  last  the  real  States  altogether  ceased  to  meet ; and  their 
power,  though  still  a part  of  the  theory  of  the  Constitution, 
became  obsolete  in  practice.  We  do  not,  of  course,  imagine 
that  Temple  either  expected  or  wished  that  Parliaments 
should  be  thus  disused ; but  he  did  expect,  we  think,  that 
something  like  what  had  happened  in  Holland  would  happen 
in  England,  and  that  a large  portion  of  the  functions  lately 
assumed  by  Parliament  would  be  quietly  transferred  to  the 
miniature  Parliament  which  he  proposed  to  create. 

Had  this  plan,  with  some  modifications,  been  tried  at  an 
earlier  period,  in  a more  composed  state  of  the  public  mind, 
and  by  a better  sovereign,  we  are  by  no  means  certain  that 
it  might  not  have  effected  the  purpose  for  which  it  was 


8 IK  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


309 


Jesigned.  The  restraint  imposed  on  the  King  by  the  Coun- 
cil of  Thirty,  whom  he  had  himself  chosen,  would  have  been 
feeble  indeed  when  compared  with  the  restraint  imposed  by 
Parliament.  But  it  would  have  been  more  constant.  It 
would  have  acted  every  year,  and  all  the  year  round ; and 
before  the  Revolution  the  sessions  of  Parliament  were  short 
and  the  recesses  long.  The  advice  of  the  Council  would 
probably  have  prevented  any  very  monstrous  and  scandal- 
ous measures ; and  would  consequently  have  prevented  tho 
discontents  which  follow  such  measures,  and  the  salutary 
laws  which  are  the  fruit  of  such  discontents.  We  believe, 
for  example,  that  the  second  Dutch  war  would  never  have 
been  approved  by  such  a Council  as  that  which  Temple  pro- 
posed. We  are  quite  certain  that  the  shutting  up  of  the 
Exchequer  would  never  even  have  been  mentioned  in  such 
a Council.  The  people,  pleased  to  think  that  Lord  Russell, 
Lord  Cavendish,  and  Mr.  Powle,  unplaced  and  unpensioned, 
were  daily  representing  their  grievances  and  defending 
their  rights  in  the  Royal  presence,  would  not  have  pined 
quite  so  much  for  the  meeting  of  Parliaments.  The  Parlia- 
ment, when  it  met,  would  have  found  fewer  and  less  glaring 
abuses  to  attack.  There  would  have  been  less  misgovern- 
ment  and  less  reform.  We  should  not  have  been  cursed  with 
the  Cabal,  or  blessed  with  the  Habeas  Corpus  Act.  In  the 
mean  time  the  Council,  considered  as  an  executive  Council, 
would,  unless  some  at  least  of  its  powers  had  been  delegated 
to  a smaller  body,  have  been  feeble,  dilatory,  divided,  unfit 
for  everything  which,  requires  secrecy  and  despatch,  and 
peculiarly  unfit  for  the  administration  of  war. 

The  revolution  put  an  end,  in  a very  different  way,  to  the 
long  contest  between  the  King  and  the  Parliament.  From 
that  time,  the  House  of  Commons  has  been  predominant  in 
the  State.  The  Cabinet  has  really  been,  from  that  time,  a 
committee  nominated  by  the  Crown  out  of  the  prevailing 
party  in  Parliament.  Though  the  minority  in  the  Commons 
are  constantly  proposing  to  condemn  executive  measures, 
or  to  call  for  papers  which  may  enable  the  House  to  sit  in 
judgment  on  such  measures,  these  propositions  are  scarcely 
ever  carried  ; and,  if  a proposition  of  this  kind  is  carried 
against  the  Government,  a change  of  Ministry  almost  ne- 
cessarily follows.  Growing  and  struggling  power  always 
gives  more  annoyance  and  is  more  unmanageable  than  estab- 
lished power.  The  House  of  Commons  gave  infinitely  more 
trouble  to  the  Ministers  of  Charles  the  Second  than  to  any 


310  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  avritings. 

Ministers  of  later  times  ; for  in  the  time  of  Charles  the  Second, 
the  House  was  checking  Ministers  in  whom  it  did  not 
confide.  Now  that  its  ascendency  is  fully  established,  it 
either  confides  in  Ministers  or  turns  them  out.  This  is  un- 
doubtedly a far  better  state  of  things  than  that  which  Temple 
Avished  to  introduce.  The  modern  Cabinet  is  a far  better 
executive  Council  than  his.  The  worst  House  of  Commons 
that  has  sate  since  the  Revolution  was  a far  more  efficient 
chock  on  misgovernment  than  his  fifteen  independent  coun- 
sellors would  have  been.  Yet,  everything  considered,  it 
seems  to  us  that  his  plan  Avas  the  Avork  of  an  observant,  in- 
genious, and  fertile  mind. 

On  this  occasion,  as  on  every  occasion  on  which  he  came 
prominently  forward,  Temple  had  the  rare  good  fortune  to 
please  the  public  as  Avell  as  the  Sovereign.  The  general  ex- 
ultation Avas  great  when  it  Avas  knoAvn  that  the  old  Council, 
made  up  of  the  most  odious  tools  of  poAver,  Avas  dismissed, 
that  small  interior  committees,  rendered  odious  by  the  recent 
memory  of  the  Cabal,  Avere  to  be  disused,  and  that  the  King 
Avould  adopt  no  measure  till  it  had  been  discussed  and  ap- 
proved by  a body,  of  Avhich  one  half  consisted  of  indepen- 
dent gentlemen  and  noblemen,  and  in  A\dxich  such  persons  as 
Russell,  Ca\rendish,  and  Temple  himself  had  seats.  ToAvn 
and  country  Avere  in  a ferment  of  joy.  The  bells  were  rung  ; 
bonfires  were  lighted ; and  the  acclamations  of  England 
were  echoed  by  the  Dutch,  avIio  considered  the  influence  ob- 
tained by  Temple  as  a certain  omen  of  good  for  Europe.  It 
is,  indeed,  much  to  the  honor  of  his  sagacity  that  every  one 
of  his  great  measures  should,  in  such  times,  have  pleased 
every  party  which  he  had  any  interest  in  pleasing.  This 
Avasthe  case  Avith  the  Triple  Alliance,  with  the  treaty  which 
concluded  the  Second  Dutch  Avar,  Avith  the  marriage  of  the 
Prince  of  Orange,  and,  finally,  with  the  institution  of  this 
new  Council. 

The  only  people  who  grumbled  were  those  popular 
leaders  of  the  House  of  Commons  Avho  Avere  not  among  the 
Thirty ; and,  if  our  vieAV  of  the  measure  be  correct,  they 
were  precisely  the  people  who  had  good  reason  to  grumble. 
They  were  precisely  the  people  Avhose  activity  and  vt  hose  in- 
fluence the  new  Council  Avas  intended  to  destroy. 

But  there  Avas  very  soon  an  end  of  the  bright  hopes  and 
loud  applauses  with  which  the  publication  of  this  scheme 
had  been  hailed.  The  perfidious  levity  of  the  King  and  the 
ambition  of  the  chiefs  of  parties  produced  the  instant,  entire, 


SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


311 


and  irremediable  failure  of  a plan  which  nothing  but  firm- 
ness, public  spirit,  and  self-denial,  on  the  part  of  all  concerned 
in  it,  could  conduct  to  a happy  issue.  Even  before  the  pro- 
ject was  divulged,  its  author  had  already  found  reason  to 
apprehend  that  it  would  fail.  Considerable  difficulty  was 
experienced  in  framing  the  list  of  counsellors.  There  were 
two  men  in  particular  about  whom  the  King  and  Temple 
could  not  agree,  two  men  deeply  tainted  with  the  vices  com- 
mon to  the  English  statesmen  of  that  age,  but  unrivalled  in 
talents,  address,  and  influence.  These  were  the  Earl  of 
Shaftesbury,  and  George  Savile  Viscount  Halifax. 

It  was  a favorite  exercise  among  the  Greek  sophists  to 
write  panegyrics  on  characters  proverbial  for  depravity. 
One  professor  of  rhetoric  sent  to  Isocrates  a panegyric  on 
Busiris ; and  Isocrates  himself  wrote  another,  which  has 
come  down  to  us.  It  is,  we  presume,  from  an  ambition  of 
the  same  kind  that  some  writers  have  lately  shown  a disposi- 
tion to  eulogize  Shaftesbury.  But  the  attempt  is  vain.  The 
charges  against  him  rest  on  evidence  not  to  be  invalidated 
by  any  arguments  which  human  wit  can  devise,  or  by  any 
information  which  may  be  found  in  old  trunks  and  escru- 
toires. 

It  is  certain  that,  just  before  the  Restoration,  he  declared 
to  the  Regicides  that  he  would  be  damned,  body  and  soul, 
rather  than  suffer  a hair  of  their  heads  to  be  hurt,  and  that, 
just  after  the  Restoration  he  was  one  of  the  judges  who 
sentenced  them  to  death.  It  is  certain  that  he  was  a prin- 
cipal member  of  the  most  profligate  Administration  ever 
known,  and  that  he  was  afterwards  a principal  member  of 
the  most  profligate  Opposition  ever  known.  It  is  certain 
that,  in  power,  he  did  not  scruple  to  violate  the  great  funda- 
mental principle  of  the  Constitution,  in  order  to  exalt  the 
Catholics,  and  that,  out  of  power,  he  did  not  scruple  to  vio- 
late every  principle  of  justice,  in  order  to  destroy  them. 
There  were  in  that  age  some  honest  men,  such  as  William 
Penn,  who  valued  toleration  so  highly  that  they  would  will- 
ingly have  seen  it  established  even  by  an  illegal  exertion  of 
the  prerogative.  There  were  many  honest  men  who  dreaded 
arbitrary  power  so  much  that,  on  account  of  the  alliance  be- 
tween Popery  and  arbitrary  power,  they  were  disposed  to 
grant  no  toleration  to  Papists.  On  both  these  classes  we 
look  with  indulgence,  though  we  think  both  in  the  wrong. 
But  Shaftesbury  belonged  to  neither  class.  He  united  all 
that  was  worst  in  both.  From  the  misguided  friends  of  tol- 


812 


hacaulay’s  miscellaneous  wettings. 


eration  lie  borrowed  their  contempt  for  the  Constitution,  and 
from  the  misguided  friends  of  civil  liberty  their  contempt 
for  the  rights  of  conscience.  We  never  can  admit  that  his 
conduct  as  a member  of  the  Cabal  was  redeemed  by  his  con- 
duct as  a leader  of  Opposition.  On  the  contrary,  his  life  was 
such  that  every  part  of  it,  as  if  by  a skilful  contrivance,  re- 
flects infamy  on  every  other.  We  should  never  have  known 
how  abandoned  a prostitute  he  was  in  place,  if  we  had  not 
known  how  desperate  an  incendiary  he  was  out  of  it.  To 
judge  of  him  fairly,  we  must  bear  in  mind  that  the  Shaftes- 
bury who,  in  office,  was  the  chief  author  of  the  Declaration 
of  Indulgence,  was  the  same  Shaftesbury  who,  out  of  office, 
excited  and  kept  up  the  savage  hatred  of  the  rabble  of 
London  against  the  very  class  to  whom  that  Declaration  of 
Indulgence  was  intended  to  give  illegal  relief. 

It  is  amusing  to  see  the  excuses  that  are  made  for  him. 
We  will  give  two  specimens.  It  is  acknowledged  that  he 
was  one  of  the  Ministry  who  made  the  alliance  with  France 
against  Holland,  and  that  this  alliance  was  most  pernicious. 
What,  then,  is  the  defence  ? Even  this,  that  he  betrayed 
his  master’s  counsels  to  the  Electors  of  Saxony  and  Bran- 
denburgh,  and  tried  to  rouse  all  the  Protestant  powers  of 
Germany  to  defend  the  States.  Again,  it  is  acknowledged 
that  he  was  deeply  concerned  in  the  Declaration  of  Indul- 
gence, and  that  his  conduct  on  this  occasion  was  not  only 
unconstitutional,  but  quite  inconsistent  with  the  course 
which  he  afterwards  took  respecting  the  professors  of  the 
Catholic  faith.  What,  then,  is  the  defence?  Even  this, 
that  he  meant  only  to  allure  concealed  Papists  to  avow 
themselves,  and  thus  to  become  open  marks  for  the  vengeance 
of  the  public.  As  often  as  he  is  charged  with  one  treason, 
his  advocates  vindicate  him  by  confessing  two.  They  had 
better  leave  him  where  they  find  him.  For  him  there  is  no 
escape  upwards.  Every  outlet  by  which  he  can  creep  out 
of  his  present  position,  is  one  which  lets  him  down  into  a 
still  lower  and  fouler  depth  of  infamy.  To  whitewash  an 
Ethiopian  by  giving  him  a new  coat  of  blacking,  is  an  en- 
terprise more  extraordinary  still.  That  in  the  course  of 
Shaftesbury’s  dishonest  and  revengeful  opposition  to  the 
Court,  he  rendered  one  or  two  most  useful  services  to  his 
country  we  admit.  And  he  is,  we  think,  fairly  entitled,  if 
that  be  any  glory,  to  have  his  name  eternally  associated 
with  the  Habeas  Corpus  Act  in  the  same  way  as  the  name 
of  Henry  the  Eighth  is  associated  with  the  reformation  of 


SIB  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


318 


the  Church,  and  that  of  Jack  Wilkes  with  the  most  sacred 
rights  of  electors. 

While  Shaftesbury  was  still  living,  his  character  was 
elaborately  drawn  by  two  of  the  greatest  writers  of  the  age, 
by  Butler,  with  characteristic  brilliancy  of  wit,  by  Dry  den, 
with  even  more  than  characteristic  energy  and  loftiness,  by 
both  with  all  the  inspiration  of  hatred.  The  sparkling 
illustrations  of  Butler  have  been  thrown  into  the  shade  by 
the  brighter  glory  of  that  gorgeous  satinc  Muse,  who  comes 
sweeping  by  in  sceptred  pall,  borrowed  from  her  more  au- 
gust sisters.  But  the  descriptions  well  deserve  to  be  com- 
pared. The  reader  will  at  once  perceive  a considerable 
difference  between  Butler’s 

“ politician, 

With  more  heads  than  a beast  in  vision.*' 

and  the  Ahithophel  of  Dry  den.  Butler  dwells  on  Shaftes- 
bury’s unprincipled  versatility ; on  his  wonderful  and  al- 
most instinctive  skill  in  discerning  the  approach  of  a change 
of  fortune ; and  on  the  dexterity  with  which  he  extricated 
himself  from  the  snares  in  which  he  left  his  associates  to 
perish, 

“ Our  state-artificer  foresaw 
Which  way  the  world  began  to  draw, 

For  as  old  sinners  have  all  points 

O’  th*  compass  in  their  bones  and  joints, 

Can  by  their  pangs  and  aches  find 
All  turns  and  changes  of  the  wind, 

And  better  than  by  Napier's  bones 
Feel  in  their  own  the  age  of  moons  : 

So  guilty  sinners  in  a state 
Can  by  their  crimes  prognosticate, 

And  in  their  consciences  feel  pain 
Some  days  before  a shower  of  rain. 

He,  therefore,  wisely  cast  about 

All  ways  he  could  to  ensure  his  throat.*' 

In  Dryden’s  great  portrait,  on  the  contrary,  violent  pas- 
sion, implacable  revenge,  boldness  amounting  to  temerity, 
are  the  most  striking  features.  Ahithophel  is  one  of  the 
“ great  wits  to  madness  near  allied.”  And  again — 

u A daring  pilot  in  extremity, 

Pleased  with  the  danger  when  the  waves  went  high, 

He  sought  the  storms  ; but,  for  a calm  unfit, 

Would  steer  too  nigh  the  sands  to  boast  his  wit.’** 


* It  has  never,  we  believe,  been  remarked,  that  two  of  the  most  striking  lines 
in  the  description  of  Ahithophel  are  borrowed  from  a most  obscure  quarter,  In 
Knelles’s  History  of  the  Turks,  printed  more  than  sixty  years  before  the  appear- 

ance of  Absalom  and  Ahithophel,  are  the  following  verges  under  a portrait  o$ 
She  §uUan  Muetapha  the  First 


814 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


The  dates  of  the  two  poems  will,  we  think,  explain  this 
discrepancy.  The  third  part  of  Hudibras  appeared  in  1678, 
when  the  character  of  Shaftesbury  had  as  yet  but  imper- 
fectly developed  itself.  He  had,  indeed,  been  a traitor  to 
every  party  in  the  State ; but  his  treasons  had  hitherto 
prospered.  Whether  it  were  accident  or  sagacity,  he  had 
timed  his  desertions  in  such  a manner  that  fortune  seemed 
to  go  to  and  fro  with  him  from  side  to  side.  The  extent  of 
his  perfidy  was  known ; but  it  was  not  till  the  Popish  Plot 
furnished  him  with  a machinery  which  seemed  sufficiently 
powerful  for  all  his  purposes,  that  the  audacity  of  his  spirit, 
and  the  fierceness  of  his  malevolent  passions,  became  fully 
manifest.  His  subsequent  conduct  showed  undoubtedly  great 
ability,  but  not  ability  of  the  sort  for  which  he  had  formerly 
been  so  eminent.  He  was  now  headstrong,  sanguine,  full 
of  impetuous  confidence  in  his  own  wisdom  and  his  own 
good  luck.  Pie,  whose  fame  as  a political  tactician  had 
hitherto  rested  chiefly  on  his  skilful  retreats,  now  set  him- 
self to  break  down  all  the  bridges  behind  him.  His  plans 
were  castles  in  the  air : his  talk  was  rodomontade.  He 
took  no  thought  for  the  morrow  : he  treated  the  Court  as  if 
the  King  were  already  a prisoner  in  his  hands  : he  built  on 
the  favor  of  the  multitude,  as  if  that  favor  were  not  pro- 
verbially inconstant.  The  signs  of  the  coming  reaction  were 
discerned  by  men  of  far  less  sagacity  than  his,  and  sacred 
from  his  side  men  more  consistent  than  he  had  ever  pre- 
tended to  be.  But  on  him  they  were  lost.  The  counsel  of 
Ahithophel,  that  counsel  which  was  as  if  a man  had  inquired 
of  the  oracle  of  God,  was  turned  into  foolishness.  He  who 
had  become  a byword,  for  the  certainty  with  which  he  fore- 
saw and  the  suj^pleness  with  which  he  evaded  danger,  now, 
when  beset  on  every  side  with  snares  and  death,  seemed  to 
be  smitten  with  a blindness  as  strange  as  his  former  clear- 
sightedness, and,  turning  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the 
left,  strode  straight  on  with  desperate  hardihood  to  his 

“ Greatness©  on  goodness©  loves  to  slide  not  stand, 

And  leaves  for  Fortune’s  ice  Vertue’s  firme  land.” 

Dryden’s  words  are — 

“ But  wild  Ambition  loves  to  slide,  not  stand, 

And  Fortune’s  ice  prefers  to  Virtue’s  land.” 

The  circumstance  is  the  more  remarkable,  because  Dryden  has  really  no  cou- 
plet which  would  seem  to  a good  critic  more  intensely  Drydenian,  both  in  thought 
and  expression,  than  this,  of  which  the  whole  thought,  and  almost  the  whole  ex- 
pression, are  stolen. 

As  we  are  on  this  subject,  we  cannot  refrain  from  observing  that  Mr.  Courtenay 
has  done  Dryden  injustice,  by  inadvertently  attributing  to  him  some  feeble  lines 
which  are  in  Tate’s  part  of  Absalom  and  Ahithophel. 


SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


315 


dcKim.  Therefore,  after  having  early  acquired  and  long 
preserved  the  reputation  of  infallible  wisdom  and  invariable 
success,  he  lived  to  see  a mighty  ruin  wrought  by  his  own 
ungovernable  passions,  to  see  the  great  party  which  he  had 
led  vanquished,  and  scattered,  and  trampled  down,  to  see  all 
his  own  devilish  enginery  of  lying  witnesses,  partial  sheriffs, 
packed  juries,  unjust  judges,  bloodthirsty  mobs,  ready  to  be 
employed  against  himself  and  his  most  devoted  followers, 
to  fly  from  that  proud  city  whose  favor  had  almost  raised 
him  to  be  Mayor  of  the  Palace,  to  hide  himself  in  squalid 
retreats,  to  cover  his  gray  head  with  ignominious  disguises ; 
and  he  died  in  hopeless  exile,  sheltered,  by  the  generosity 
of  a State  which  he  had  cruelly  injured  and  insulted,  from 
the  vengeance  of  a master  whose  favor  he  had  purchased 
by  one  series  of  crimes,  and  forfeited  by  another. 

Halifax  had,  in  common  with  Shaftesbury,  and  with  al- 
most all  the  politicians  of  that  age,  a very  loose  morality 
where  the  public  was  concerned  ; but  in  Halifax  the  pre- 
vailing infection  was  modified  by  a very  peculiar  constitu- 
tion both  of  heart  and  head,  by  a temper  singularly  free  from 
gall,  and  by  a refining  and  skeptical  understanding.  He 
changed  his  course  as  often  as  Shaftesbury ; but  he  did  not 
change  it  to  the  same  extent,  or  in  the  same  direction. 
Shaftesbury  was  the  very  reverse  of  a trimmer.  His  disposi- 
tion led  him  generally  to  do  his  utmost  to  exalt  the  side 
which  was  up,  and  to  depress  the  side  which  was  down. 
His  transitions  were  from  extreme  to  extreme.  While  he 
stayed  with  a party  he  went  all  lengths  for  it : wrhen  he 
quitted  it  he  went  all  lengths  against  it.  Halifax  was  em- 
phatically a trimmer ; a trimmer  both  by  intellect  and  by 
constitution.  The  name  was  fixed  on  him  by  his  contenrpo- 
raries : and  he  was  so  far  from  being  ashamed  of  it  that  he 
assumed  it  as  a badge  of  honor.  He  passed  from  faction  to 
faction.  But,  instead  of  adopting  and  inflaming  the  passions 
of  those  whom  he  joined,  he  tried  to  diffuse  among  them 
something  of  the  spirit  of  those  whom  he  had  just  left. 
While  he  acted  with  the  Opposition  he  was  suspected  of 
being  a spy  of  the  Court;  and  when  he  had  joined  the  Court 
all  the  Tories  were  dismayed  by  his  Republican  doctrines. 

He  wanted  neither  arguments  nor  eloquence  to  exhibit 
what  was  commonly  regarded  as  his  wavering  policy  in  the 
fairest  light.  He  trimmed,  he  said,  as  the  temperate  zone 
trims  between  intolerable  heat  and  intolerable  cold,  as  a 
good  government  trims  between  despotism  and  anarchy,  a? 


816  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

a pure  church  trims  between  the  errors  of  the  Papist  and 
those  of  the  Anabaptist.  Nor  was  this  defence  by  any 
means  without  weight ; for,  though  there  is  abundant  proof 
that  his  integrity  was  not  of  strength  to  withstand  the 
temptations  by  which  his  cupidity  and  vanity  were  some- 
times assailed,  yet  his  dislike  of  extremes,  and  a forgiving 
and  compassionate  temper  which  seems  to  have  been  natural 
to  him,  preserved  him  from  all  participation  in  the  worsl 
crimes  of  his  time.  If  both  parties  accused  him  of  deserting 
them,  both  were  compelled  to  admit  that  they  had  greaf 
obligations  to  his  humanity,  and  that,  though  an  uncertaii 
friend,  he  was  a placable  enemy.  He  voted  in  favor  of  Lon 
Stafford,  the  victim  of  the  Whigs  ; he  did  his  utmost  to  saw 
Lord  Russell,  the  victim  of  the  Tories ; and,  on  the  whole 
we  are  inclined  to  think  that  his  public  life,  though  fa 
indeed  from  faultless,  has  as  few  great  stains  as  that  of  an*/ 
politician  who  took  an  active  part  in  affairs  during  th  ) 
troubled  and  disastrous  period  of  ten  years  which  elapse  I 
between  the  fall  of  Lord  Danby  and  the  Revolution. 

His  mind  was  much  less  turned  to  particular  observa- 
tions, and  much  more  to  general  speculations,  than  that  of 
Shaftesbury.  Shaftesbury  knew  the  King,  the  Council,  the 
Parliament,  the  city,  better  than  Halifax  ; but  Halifax  wTould 
have  written  a far  better  treatise  on  political  science  than 
Shaftesbury.  Shaftesbury  shone  more  in  consultation,  and 
Halifax  in  controversy  : Shaftesbury  was  more  fertile  in 
expedients,  and  Halifax  in  arguments.  Nothing  that  re- 
mains from  the  pen  of  Shaftesbury  will  bear  a comparison 
with  the  political  tracts  of  Halifax.  Indeed,  very  little  of 
the  prose  of  that  age  is  so  well  worth  reading  as  the  Char- 
acter of  a Trimmer  and  the  Anatomy  of  an  Equivalent. 
What  particularly  strikes  us  in  those  works  is  the  writer’s 
passion  for  generalization.  He  was  treating  of  the  most 
exciting  subjects  in  the  most  agitated  times  : he  was  himself 
placed  in  the  very  thick  of  the  civil  conflict ; yet  there  is  no 
acrimony,  nothing  inflammatory,  nothing  personal.  He 
preserves  an  air  of  cold  superiority,  a certain  philosophical 
serenity,  which  is  perfectly  marvellous.  He  treats  every 
question  as  an  abstract  question,  begins  with  the  widest 
propositions,  argues  those  propositions  on  general  grounds, 
and  often,  when  he  has  brought  out  his  theorem,  leaves  the 
reader  to  make  the  application,  without  adding  an  allusion 
to  particular  men  or  to  passing  events.  This  speculative 
turn  of  mind  rendered  him  a bad  adviser  in  cases  which 


SIB  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


81? 


required  celerity.  He  brought  forward,  with  wonderful 
readiness  and  copiousness,  arguments,  replies  to  those  argu- 
ments, rejoinders  to  those  replies,  general  maxims  of  policy, 
md  analogous  cases  from  history.  But  Shaftesbury  was 
the  man  for  a prompt  decision.  Of  the  parliamentary  elo- 
quence of  these  celebrated  rivals,  we  can  judge  only  by 
report;  and,  so  judging,  we  should  be  inclined  to  think  that 
though  Shaftesbury  was  a distinguished  speaker,  the  supe- 
riority belonged  to  Halifax.  Indeed,  the  readiness  of  Hali- 
fax in  debate,  the  extent  of  his  knowledge,  the  ingenuity  of 
lis  reasoning,  the  liveliness  of  his  expression,  and  the  silver 
dearness  and  sweetness  of  his  voice,  seem  to  have  made  the 
strongest  impression  on  his  contemporaries.  By  Dryden  he 
fe  described  as 

“ of  piercing  wit  and  pregnant  thought, 

Endued  by  nature  and  by  learning  taught 
To  move  assemblies. 

His  Oratory  is  utterly  and  irretrievably  lost  to  us,  like 
that  of  Somers,  of  Bolingbroke,  of  Charles  Townshend,  of 
many  others  who  were  accustomed  to  rise  amidst  the  breath- 
less expectation  of  senates,  and  to  sit  down  amidst  reiter- 
ated bursts  of  applause.  But  old  men  who  lived  to  admire 
the  eloquence  of  Pulteney  in  its  meridian,  and  that  of  Pitt 
in  its  splendid  dawn,  still  murmured  that  they  had  heard 
nothing  like  the  great  speeches  of  Lord  Halifax  on  the 
Exclusion  Bill.  The  power  of  Shaftesbury  over  large 
masses  was  unrivalled.  Halifax  was  disqualified  by  his  whole 
character,  moral  and  intellectual,  for  the  part  of  a dema- 
gogue. It  was  in  small  circles,  and,  above  all,  in  the  House 
of  Lords,  that  his  ascendency  was  felt. 

Shaftesbury  seems  to  have  troubled  himself  very  little 
about  theories  of  government.  Halifax  was,  in  speculation, 
a strong  republican,  and  did  not  conceal  it.  He  often  made 
hereditary  monarchy  and  aristocracy  the  subjects  of  his  keen 
pleasantry,  while  he  was  fighting  the  battles  of  the  Court, 
and  obtaining  for  himself  step  after  step  in  the  peerage.  In 
this  way,  he  tried  to  gratify  at  once  his  intellectual  vanity 
and  his  more  vulgar  ambition,  He  shaped  his  life  accord- 
ing to  the  opinion  of  the  multitude,  and  indemnified  him- 
self by  talking  according  to  his  own.  His  colloquial  powers 
were  great ; his  perception  of  the  ridiculous  exquisitely 
fine;  and  he  seems  to  have  had  the  rare  art  of  preserving 
the  reputation  of  good  breeding  and  good  nature,  while 
habitually  indulging  a strong  propensity  to  mockery. 


318 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


Temple  wished  to  put  Halifax  into  the  new  council,  and 
to  leave  out  Shaftesbury.  The  King  objected  strongly  to 
Halifax,  to  whom  he  had  taken  a great  dislike,  which  is  not 
accounted  for,  and  which  did  not  last  long.  Temple  replied 
that  Halifax  was  a man  eminent  both  by  his  station  and  by 
his  abilities,  and  would,  if  excluded,  do  everything  against 
the  new  arrangement  that  could  be  done  by  eloquence,  sar< 
casm,  and  intrigue.  All  who  were  consulted  were  of  the 
same  mind  ; and  the  King  yielded,  but  not  till  Temple  had 
almost  gone  on  his  knees.  This  point  was  no  sooner  settled 
than  his  Majesty  declared  that  he  would  have  Shaftesbury 
too.  Temple  again  had  recourse  to  entreaties  and  expostu- 
lations. Charles  told  him  that  the  enmity  of  Shaftesbury 
would  be  at  least  as  formidable  as  that  of  Halifax ; and  this 
was  true ; but  Temple  might  have  replied  that  by  giving 
power  to  Halifax  they  gained  a friend,  and  that  by  giving 
power  to  Shaftesbury,  they  only  strengthened  an  enemy. 

It  was  vain  to  argue  and  protest.  The  King  only  laughed 
and  jested  at  Temple’s  anger ; and  Shaftesbury  was  not 
only  sworn  of  the  Council,  but  appointed  Lord  President. 

Temple  was  so  bitterly  mortified  by  this  step  that  he 
had  at  one  time  resolved  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  the 
new  Administration,  and  seriously  thought  of  disqualifying 
himself  from  sitting  in  council  by  omitting  to  take  the  Sacra-  | 
ment.  But  the  urgency  of  Lady  Temple  and  Lady  Giffard 
induced  him  to  abandon  that  intention. 

The  Council  was  organized  on  the  twenty-first  of  April, 
1679;  and,  within  a few  hours,  one  of  the  fundamental 
principles  on  which  it  had  been  constructed  was  violated. 

A secret  committee,  or,  in  the  modern  phrase,  a cabinet  of 
nine  members,  was  formed.  But,  as  this  committee  included 
Shaftesbury  and  Monmouth,  it  contained  within  itself  the 
elements  of  as  much  faction  as  would  have  sufficed  to  im- 
pede all  business.  Accordingly  there  soon  arose  a small 
interior  cabinet,  consisting  of  Essex,  Sunderland,  Halifax, 
and  Temple.  For  a time  perfect  harmony  and  confidence 
subsisted  between  the  four.  But  the  meetings  of  the  thirty 
were  stormy.  Sharp  retorts  passed  between  Shaftesbury  , 
and  Halifax,  who  led  the  opposite  parties.  In  the  Council 
Ilaufax  generally  had  the  advantage.  But  it  soon  became 
apparent  that  Shaftesbury  still  had  at  his  back  the  majority 
of  the  House  of  Commons.  The  discontents  which  the 
change  of  Ministry  had  for  a moment  quieted  broke  forth 
again  with  redoubled  violence ; and  the  only  effect  which 


SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


319 


the  late  measures  appeared  to  have  produced  was  that  the 
Lord  President,  with  all  the  dignity  and  authority  belonging 
to  his  high  place,  stood  at  the  head  of  the  Opposition.  The 
impeachment  of  Lord  Danby  was  eagerly  prosecuted.  The 
Commons  were  determined  to  exclude  the  Duke  of  York 
from  the  throne.  All  offers  of  compromise  were  rejected. 
It  must  not  be  forgotten,  however,  that,  in  the  midst  of  the 
confusion,  one  inestimable  law,  the  only  benefit  which  Eng- 
land has  derived  from  the  troubles  of  that  period,  but  a 
benefit  which  may  well  be  set  off  against  a great  mass  of 
evil;  the  Habeas  Corpus  Act,  was  pushed  through  the 
Houses  and  received  the  royal  assent. 

The  King  finding  the  Parliament  as  troublesome  as  ever, 
determined  to  prorogue  it;  and  he  did  so  without  even 
mentioning  his  intention  to  the  Council  by  whose  advice  he 
had  pledged  himself,  only  a month  before,  to  conduct  the 
Government.  The  counsellors  were  generally  dissatisfied  ; 
and  Shaftesbury  swore  with  great  vehemence,  that,  if  he 
could  find  out  who  the  secret  advisers  were,  he  would  have 
their  heads. 

The  Parliament  rose ; London  was  deserted ; and 
Temple  retired  to  his  villa,  whence,  on  council  days,  he 
went  to  Hampton  Court.  The  post  of  Secretary  was  again 
and  again  pressed  on  him  by  his  master  and  by  his  three 
colleagues  of  the  inner  Cabinet.  Halifax,  in  particular, 
threatened  laughingly  to  burn  down  the  house  at  Sheen. 
But  Temple  was  immovable.  Ills  short  experience  of 
English  politics  had  disgusted  him ; and  lie  felt  himself  so 
much  oppressed  by  the  responsibility  under  which  he  at 
present  lay  that  he  had  no  inclination  to  add  to  the  load 

When  the  term  fixed  for  the  prorogation  had  nearly 
expired,  it  became  necessary  to  consider  what  course  should 
be  taken.  The  King  and  his  four  confidential  adviser# 
thought  that  a new  Parliament  might  possibly  be  more 
manageable,  and  could  not  possibly  be  more  refractory, 
than  that  which  they  now  had,  and  they  therefore  deter 
mined  on  a dissolution.  But  when  the  question  was  pro 
posed  at  council,  the  majority,  jealous,  it  should  seem,  of 
the  small  directing  knot,  and  unwilling  to  bear  the  unpopu- 
larity of  the  measures  of  Government,  while  excluded  from 
all  power,  joined  Shaftesbury,  and  the  members  of  the 
Cabinet  were  left  alone  in  the  minority.  The  King,  how- 
ever, had  made  up  his  mind,  and  ordered  the  Parliament  to 
be  instantly  dissolved.  Temple’s  council  was  now  nothing 


320  Macaulay's  miscellaneous  writings. 

more  than  an  ordinary  privy  council,  if  indeed  it  were  not 
something  less  ; and,  though  Temple  threw  the  blame  of 
this  on  the  King,  on  Lord  Shaftesbury,  on  everybody  but 
himself,  it  is  evident  that  the  failure  of  his  plan  is  to  be 
chiefly  ascribed  to  its  own  inherent  defects.  His  Council 
was  too  large  to  transact  business  which  required  expedition, 
secrecy,  and  cordial  co-operation.  A Cabinet  was  therefore 
formed  within  the  Council.  The  Cabinet  and  the  majority 
of  the  Council  differed ; and,  as  was  to  be  expected,  the 
Cabinet  carried  their  point.  Four  votes  outweighed  six-and- 
twenty.  This  being  the  case,  the  meetings  of  the  thirty 
were  not  only  useless,  but  positively  noxious. 

At  the  ensuing  election,  Temple  was  chosen  for  the 
university  of  Cambridge.  The  only  objection  that  was 
made  to  him  by  the  members  of  that  learned  body  was  that, 
in  his  little  work  on  Holland,  he  had  expressed  great  appro- 
bation of  the  tolerant  policy  of  the  States,  and  this  blemish, 
however  serious,  was  overlooked,  in  consideration  of  his 
high  reputation,  and  of  the  strong  recommendations  with 
which  he  was  furnished  by  the  Court. 

During  the  summer  he  remained  at  Sheen,  and  amused 
himself  with  rearing  melons,  leaving  to  the  three  other  mem- 
bers of  the  inner  Cabinet  the  whole  direction  of  public 
affairs.  Some  unexplained  cause  began,  about  this  time,  to 
alienate  them  from  him.  They  do  not  appear  to  have  been 
made  angry  by  any  part  of  his  conduct,  or  to  have  disliked 
him  personally.  But  they  had,  we  suspect,  taken  the  meas- 
ure of  his  mind,  and  satisfied  themselves  that  he  was  not  a 
man  for  that  troubled  time,  and  that  he  would  be  a mere 
incumbrance  to  them.  Living  themselves  for  ambition, 
they  despised  his  love  of  ease.  Accustomed  to  deep  stakes 
in  the  game  of  political  hazard,  they  despised  his  piddling 
play.  They  looked  on  his  cautious  measures  with  the  sort  of 
scorn  with  which  the  gamblers  at  the  ordinary,  in  Sir  Walter 
Scott’s  novel,  regarded  Nigel’s  practice  of  never  touching  a 
card  but  when  he  was  certain  to  win.  He  soon  found  that 
he  was  left  out  of  their  secrets.  The  King  had,  about  this 
time,  a dangerous  attack  of  illness.  The  Duke  of  York,  on 
receiving  the  news,  returned  from  Holland.  The  sudden 
appearance  of  the  detested  Popish  successor  excited  anxiety 
throughout  the  country.  Temple  was  greatly  amazed  and 
disturbed.  He  hastened  up  to  London  and  visited  Essex, 
who  professed  to  be  astonished  and  mortified,  but  could  not 
disguise  a sneering  smile  Temple  then  saw  Halifax*  who 


SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


S21 


talked  to  him  much  about  the  pleasures  of  the  country,  the 
anxieties  of  office,  and  the  vanity  of  all  human  things,  but 
carefully  avoided  politics,  and  when  the  Duke’s  return  was 
mentioned,  only  sighed,  shook  his  head,  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders, and  lifted  up  his  eyes  and  hands.  In  a short  time 
Temple  found  that  his  two  friends  had  been  laughing  at 
him,  and  that  they  had  themselves  sent  for  the  Duke,  in 
order  that  his  Royal  Highness  might,  if  the  King  should 
die,  be  on  the  spot  to  frustrate  the  designs  of  Monmouth. 

He  was  soon  convinced,  by  a still  stronger  proof,  that, 
though  he  had  not  exactly  offended  his  master  or  his  col- 
leagues in  the  Cabinet,  he  had  ceased  to  enjoy  their  confi- 
dence. The  result  of  the  general  election  had  been  decidedly 
unfavorable  to  the  Government ; and  Shaftesbury  impatiently 
expected  the  day  when  the  Houses  were  to  meet.  The 
King,  guided  by  the  advice  of  the  inner  Cabinet,  deter- 
mined on  a step  of  the  highest  importance.  He  told  the 
Council  that  he  had  resolved  to  prorogue  the  new  Parlia- 
ment for  a year,  and  requested  them  not  to  object ; for  he 
had,  he  said,  considered  the  subject  fully,  and  had  made  up 
his  mind.  All  who  were  not  in  the  secret  were  thunder- 
struck, Temple  as  much  as  any.  Several  members  rose,  and 
entreated  to  be  heard  against  the  prorogation.  But  the 
King  silenced  them,  and  declared  that  his  resolution  was 
unalterable.  Temple,  much  hurt  at  the  manner  in  which 
both  himself  and  the  Council  had  been  treated,  spoke  with 
great  spirit.  He  would  not,  he  said,  disobey  the  King  by 
objecting  to  a measure  on  which  his  Majesty  was  determined 
to  near  no  argument ; but  he  would  most  earnestly  entreat 
his  Majesty,  if  the  present  Council  was  incompetent  to  give 
advice,  to  dissolve  it  and  select  another ; for  it  was  absurd 
to  have  counsellors  who  did  not  counsel,  and  who  were  sum- 
moned only  to  be  silent  witnesses  of  the  acts  of  others. 
The  King  listened  courteously.  But  the  members  of  the 
Cabinet  resented  this  reproof  highly ; and  from  that  day 
Temple  was  almost  as  much  estranged  from  them  as  from 
Shaftesbury. 

He  wished  to  retire  altogether  from  business.  But  just 
at  this  time  Lord  Russell,  Lord  Cavendish,  and  some  other 
counsellors  of  the  popular  party,  waited  on  the  King  in  a 
body,  declared  their  strong  disapprobation  of  his  measures, 
and  requested  to  be  excused  from  attending  any  more  at 
council.  Temple  feared  that  if,  at  this  moment,  he  also 
were  to  withdraw,  he  might  be  supposed  to  act  in  concert 
Vol.  II.— 21 


322 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


with  those  decided  opponents  of  the  Court,  and  to  havfl 
determined  on  taking  a course  hostile  tc  the  Government. 
He,  therefore,  continued  to  go  occasionally  to  the  board ; 
but  he  had  no  longer  any  real  share  in  the  direction  of  pub- 
lic affairs. 

At  length  the  long  term  of  the  prorogation  expired.  In 
October,  1680,  the  Houses  met ; and  the  great  question  of 
the  Exclusion  was  revived.  Few  parliamentary  contests  in 
our  history  appear  to  have  called  forth  a greater  display  of 
talent ; none  certainly  ever  called  forth  more  violent  pas- 
cions.  The  whole  nation  was  convulsed  by  party  spirit. 
The  gentlemen  of  every  county,  the  traders  of  every  town, 
the  boys  of  every  public  school,  were  divided  into  exclusion* 
ists  and  abhorrers.  The  book-stalls  were  covered  with  tracts 
on  the  sacredness  of  hereditary  right,  on  the  omnipotence 
of  Parliament,  on  the  dangers  of  a disputed  succession,  on 
the  dangers  of  a Popish  reign.  It  was  in  the  midst  of  this 
ferment  that  Temple  took  his  seat,  for  the  first  time,  in  the 
House  of  Commons.  * 

The  occasion  was  a very  great  one.  His  talents,  his 
long  experience  of  affairs,  his  unspotted  public  character, 
the  high  posts  which  he  had  filled,  seemed  to  mark  him  out 
as  a man  on  whom  much  would  depend.  He  acted  like 
himself.  He  saw  that,  if  lie  supported  the  Exclusion,  he 
made  the  King  and  the  heir  presumptive  enemies,  and  that, 
if  he  opposed  it,  he  made  himself  an  object  of  hatred  to  the 
unscrupulous  and  turbulent  Shaftesbury.  He  neither  sup- 
ported nor  opposed  it.  He  quietly  absented  himself  from 
the  House.  Kay,  he  took  care,  he  tells  us,  never  to  discuss 
the  question  in  any  society  whatever.  Lawrence  Hyde, 
afterwards  Earl  of  Rochester,  asked  him  why  he  did  not  at- 
tend in  his  place.  Temple  replied  that  he  acted  according 
to  Solomon’s  advice,  neither  to  oppose  the  mighty,  nor  to  go 
about  to  stop  the  current  of  a river.  Hyde  answered,  “ You 
are  a wise  and  a quiet  man.”  And  this  might  be  true.  But 
surely  such  wise  and  quiet  men  have  no  call  to  be  members 
of  Parliament  in  critical  times. 

A single  session  was  quite  enough  for  Temple.  When 
Parliament  was  dissolved,  and  another  summoned  at  Ox- 
ford, he  obtained  an  audience  of  the  King,  and  begged  to 
know  whether  his  Majesty  wished  him  to  continue  in  Par 
liament.  Charles,  who  had  a singularly  quick  eye  for  the 
weaknesses  of  all  who  came  near  him,  had  no  doubt  seen 
through  Temple,  and  rated  the  parliamentary  support  of  so 


SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE* 


323 


cool  and  guarded  a friend  at  its  proper  value.  He  answered 
good-naturedly,  but  we  suspect  a little  contemptuously,  “ I 
•doubt,  as  things  stand,  your  coming  into  the  House  will 
not  do  much  good.  I think  you  may  as  well  let  it  alone.” 
Sir  William  accordingly  informed  his  constituents  that 
he  should  not  again  apply  for  their  suffrages,  and  set  off 
for  Sheen,  resolving  never  again  to  meddle  with  public 
affairs.  lie  soon  found  that  the  King  was  displeased 
with  him.  Charles  indeed,  in  his  usual  easy  way,  protested 
that  he  was  not  angry,  not  at  all.  But  in  a few  days  he 
truck  Temple’s  name  out  of  the  list  of  Privy  Counsellors. 
Why  this  was  done  Temple  declares  himself  unable  to  com- 
prehend. But  surely  it  hardly  required  his  long  and  exten- 
sive converse  with  the  world  to  teach  him  that  there  are 
conjunctures  when  men  think  that  all  who  are  not  with  them 
are  against  them,  that  there  are  conjunctures  when  a luke- 
warm friend,  who  will  not  put  himself  the  least  out  of  his 
way,  who  will  make  no  exertion,  who  will  run  no  risk,  is 
more  distasteful  than  an  enemy.  Charles  had  hoped  that 
the  fair  character  of  Temple  would  add  credit  to  an  unpop- 
ular and  suspected  Government.  But  his  Majesty  soon 
found  that  this  fair  character  resembled  pieces  of  furniture 
which  we  have  seen  in  the  drawing-rooms  of  very  precise 
| old  ladies,  and  which  are  a great  deal  too  white  to  be  used. 
This  exceeding  niceness  was  altogether  out  of  season. 
Neither  party  wanted  a man  who  was  afraid  of  taking  a 
| part,  of  incurring  abuse,  of  making  enemies.  There  were 
probably  many  good  and  moderate  men  who  would  have 
hailed  the  appearance  of  a respectable  mediator.  But  Tern 
pie  was  not  a mediator.  He  wras  merely  a neutral. 

At  last,  hoAvever,  he  had  escaped  from  public  life,  and 
found  himself  at  liberty  to  follow  his  favorite  pursuits.  His 
fortune  was  easy.  He  had  about  fifteen  hundred  a year, 
besides  the  Mastership  of  the  Rolls  in  Ireland,  an  office  in 
which  he  had  succeeded  his  father,  and  which  was  then  a 
mere  sinecure  for  life,  requiring  no  residence.  His  reputa- 
tion both  as  a negotiator  and  a writer  stood  high.  He  re- 
solved to  be  safe,  to  enjoy  himself,  and  to  let  the  world 
take  its  course ; and  Kept  his  resolution. 

Darker  times  followed.  The  Oxford  Parliament  wras 
dissolved.  The  Tories  were  triumphant.  A terrible  ven. 
geance  was  inflicted  on  the  chiefs  of  the  Opposition.  Tern 
ole  learned  in  his  retreat  the  disastrous  fate  of  several  of 
!:is  old  colleagues  in  council,  Shaftesbury  fled  to  Holland 


824  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

Russell  died  on  the  scaffold.  Essex  added  a yet  sadder  and 
more  fearful  story  to  the  bloody  chronicles  of  the  Tower. 
Monmouth  clung  in  agonies  of  supplication  round  the  knees 
of  the  stern  uncle  whom  he  had  wronged,  and  tasted  a bit- 
terness worse  than  that  of  death,  the  bitterness  of  knowing 
that  he  had  humbled  himself  in  vain.  A tyrant  trampled 
on  the  liberties  and  religion  of  the  realm.  The  national 
spirit  swelled  high  under  the  oppression.  Disaffection  spread 
even  to  the  strongholds  of  loyalty,  to  the  cloisters  of  West- 
minster, to  the  schools  of  Oxford,  to  the  guard-room  of  the 
household  troops,  to  the  very  hearth  and  bed-chamber  of 
the  Sovereign.  But  the  troubles  which  agitated  the  whole 
country  did  not  reach  the  quiet  Orangery  in  which  Temple 
loitered  away  several  years  without  once  seeing  the  smoke 
of  London.  lie  now  and  then  appeared  in  the  circle  at 
Richmond  or  Windsor.  But  the  only  expressions  which  he 
is  recorded  to  have  used  during  these  perilous  times  were, 
that  he  would  be  a good  subject,  but  that  lie  had  done  with 
politics. 

The  Revolution  came:  he  remained  strictly  neutral  dur- 
ing the  short  struggle ; and  he  then  transferred  to  the  new 
settlement  the  same  languid  sort  of  loyalty  which  he  had 
felt  for  his  former  masters.  He  paid  court  to  William  at 
Windsor,  and  William  dined  with  him  at  Sheen.  But,  in 
spite  of  the  most  pressing  solicitations,  Temple  refused  to 
become  Secretary  of  State.  The  refusal  evidently  pro- 
ceeded only  from  his  dislike  of  trouble  and  danger  ; andiiot, 
as  some  of  his  admirers  would  have  us  believe,  from  any 
scruple  of  conscience  or  honor.  For  he  consented  that  his 
son  should  take  the  office  of  Secretary  at  War  under  the 
new  Sovereign.  This  unfortunate  young  man  destroyed 
himself  within  a week  after  his  appointment,  from  vexation 
at  finding  that  his  advice  had  led  the  King  into  some  im- 
proper steps  with  regard  to  Ireland.  He  seems  to  have  in- 
herited his  father’s  extreme  sensibility  to  failure,  without 
that  singular  prudence  which  kept  his  father  out  of  all  situa- 
tions in  which  any  serious  failure  was  to  be  apprehended. 
The  blow  fell  heavily  on  the  family.  They  retired  in  deep 
dejection  to  Moor  Park,  which  they  now  preferred  to  Sheen, 
on  account  of  the  greater  distance  from  London.  In  that 
upot,*  then  very  secluded,  Temple  passed  the  remainder  of 
his  life.  The  air  agreed  with  him.  The  soil  was  fruitful, 

•Mr.  Courtenay  (vol.  ii,  p.  160.)  confounds  Moor  Park  in  Surrey,  where  Tera^ple 
resided,  with  the  Moor  Park  in  Hertfordshire,  which  is  praised  m Essay  on 
Gardening. 


SIK  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


325 


and  well  suited  to  an  experimental  farmer  and  gardener. 
The  grounds  were  laid  out  with  the  angular  regularity 
which  Sir  William  had  admired  in  the  flower-beds  of 
Haarlem  and  the  Hague.  A beautiful  rivulet,  flowing  from 
the  hills  of  Surrey,  bounded  the  domain.  But  a straight 
canal  which,  bordered  by  a terrace,  intersected  the  garden, 
was  probably  more  admired  by  the  lovers  of  the  picturesque 
in  that  age.  The  house  was  small  but  neat  and  well  fur- 
nished ; the  neighborhood  very  thinly  peopled.  Temple  had 
no  visitors,  except  a few  friends  who  were  willing  to  travel 
twenty  or  thirty  miles  in  order  to  see  him,  and  now  and  then 
a foreigner  whom  curiosity  brought  to  have  a look  at  the 
author  of  the  Triple  Alliance. 

Here,  in  May,  1694,  died  Lady  Temple.  From  the  time 
of  her  marriage  we  know  little  of  her,  except  that  her  let- 
ters were  always  greatly  admired,  and  that  she  had  the 
honor  to  correspond  constantly  with  Queen  Mary.  Lady 
Giffard,  who,  as  far  as  appears,  had  always  been  on  the  best 
terms  with  her  sister-in-law,  still  continued  to  live  with  Sir 
William. 

But  there  were  other  inmates  of  Moor  Park  to  whom  a 
far  higher  interest  belongs.  An  eccentric,  uncouth,  dis- 
agreeable young  Irishman,  who  had  narrowly  escaped  pluck- 
ing at  Dublin,  attended  Sir  William  as  an  amanuensis,  for 
board  and  twenty  pounds  a year,  dined  at  the  second  table, 
wrote  bad  verse  in  praise  of  his  employer,  and  made  love  to 
a very  pretty,  dark-eyed  young  girl,  who  waited  on  Lady 
Giffard.  Little  did  Temple  imagine  that  the  coarse  exterior 
of  his  dependent  concealed  a genius  equally  suited  to  poli- 
tics and  letters,  a genius  suited  to  shake  great  kingdoms,  to 
stir  the  laughter  and  the  rage  of  millions,  and  to  leave  to 
posterity  memorials  which  can  perish  only  writh  the  English 
language.  Little  did  he  think  that  the  flirtation  in  his  ser- 
vants’ hall,  which  he  perhaps  scarcely  deigned  to  make  the 
subject  of  a jest,  was  the  beginning  of  a long  unprosperous 
love,  which  was  to  be  as  widely  famed  as  the  passion  of 
Petrarch  or  of  Abelard.  Sir  William’s  secretary  was  Jona- 
than Swift.  Lady  Giffard’s  waiting  maid  was  poor  Stella. 

Swift  retained  no  pleasing  recollection  of  Moor  Park. 
And  we  may  easily  suppose  a situation  like  this  to  have 
been  intolerably  painful  to  a mind  haughty,  irascible,  and 
conscious  of  preeminent  ability.  Long  after,  when  he  stood 
in  the  Court  of  Requests  with  a circle  of  gartered  peers 
round  him,  or  punned  and  rhymed  with  Cabinet  Minister? 


326 


MACAULAY  S MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


over  Secretary  St.  John’s  Monte-Pulciano,  he  remembered, 
with  deep  and  sore  feeling,  how  miserable  he  used  to  be  for 
days  together  when  he  suspected  that  Sir  William  had  taken 
something  ill.  He  could  hardly  believe,  that  he,  the  Swift 
who  chid  the  Lord  Treasurer,  rallied  the  Captain  General, 
and  confronted  the  pride  of  the  Duke  of  Buckinghamshire 
with  pride  still  more  inflexible,  could  be  the  same  being  who 
had  passed  nights  of  sleepless  anxiety,  in  musing  over  a 
cross  look  or  a testy  word  of  a patron.  “ Faith,”  he  wrote 
to  Stella,  with  bitter  levity,  “ Sir  William  spoiled  a fine 
gentleman.”  Yet,  in  justice  to  Temple,  we  must  say  that 
there  is  no  reason  to  think  that  Swift  was  more  unhappy  at 
Moor  Park  than  he  would  have  been  in  a similar  situation 
under  any  roof  in  England.  We  think  also  that  the  obliga- 
tions  which  the  mind  of  Swift  owed  to  that  of  Temple 
were  not  inconsiderable.  Every  judicious  reader  must  be 
struck  by  the  peculiarities  which  distinguish  Swift’s  political 
tracts  from  all  similar  works  produced  by  mere  men  of  let- 
ters. Let  any  person  compare,  for  example,  the  Conduct  of 
the  Allies,  or  the  Letter  to  the  October  Club,  with  John- 
son’s False  Alarm,  or  Taxation  no  Tyranny,  and  he  will  be 
at  once  struck  by  the  difference  of  which  we  speak.  He 
may  possibly  think  Johnson  a greater  man  than  Swift.  He 
may  possibly  prefer  Johnson’s  style  to  Swift’s.  But  he  will 
at  once  acknowledge  that  Johnson  writes  like  a man  who 
has  never  been  out  of  his  study.  Swift  writes  like  a man 
who  has  passed  his  whole  life  in  the  midst  of  public  busi- 
ness and  to  whom  the  most  important  affairs  of  state  are  as 
familiar  as  his  weekly  bills. 

“ Turn  him  to  any  cause  of  policy, 

The  Gordian  knot  of  it  he  will  unloose, 

Familiar  as  his  garter.” 

The  difference,  in  short,  between  a political  pamphlet  by 
Johnson,  and  a political  pamphlet  by  Swift,  is  as  great 
as  the  difference  between  an  account  of  a battle  by  Mr. 
Southey  and  the  account  of  the  same  battle  by  Colonel 
Napier.  It  is  impossible  to  doubt  that  the  superiority  of 
Swift  is  to  be,  in  a great  measure,  attributed  to  his  long  and 
close  connection  with  Tempie. 

Indeed,  remote  as  were  the  alleys  and  flower-pots  of 
Moor  Park  from  the  haunts  of  the  busy  and  the  ambitious, 
Swift  had  ample  opportunities  of  becoming  acquainted  with 
the  hidden  causes  of  many  great  events.  William  was  in 
the  habit  of  consulting  Temple,  and  occasionally  visited 


nm  william  temple. 


327 


him.  Of.  what  passed  between  them  very  little  is  known. 
It  is  certain,  however,  that  when  the  Triennial  Bill  had 
been  carried  through  the  two  Houses,  his  Majesty,  who  was 
exceedingly  unwilling  to  pass  it,  sent  the  Earl  of  Portland 
to  learn  Temple’s  opinion.  Whether  Temple  thought  the 
bill  in  itself  a good  one  does  not  appear;  but  he  clearly  saw 
how  imprudent  it  must  be  in  a prince,  situated  as  William 
was,  to  engage  in  an  altercation  with  his  Parliament,  and 
directed  Swift  to  draw  up  a paper  on  the  subject,  which, 
however,  did  not  convince  the  King. 

The  chief  amusement  of  Temple’s  declining  years  was 
literature.  After  his  final  retreat  from  business  he  wrote 
his  very  agreeable  Memoirs,  corrected  and  transcribed  many 
of  his  letters,  and  published  several  miscellaneous  treatises, 
the  best  of  which,  we  think,  is  that  on  Gardening.  The 
style  of  his  essays  is,  on  the  whole,  excellent,  almost  always 
pleasing,  and  now  and  then  stately  and  splendid.  The  mat- 
ter is  generally  of  much  less  value ; as  our  readers  will  read- 
ily believe  when  we  inform  them  that  Mr.  Courtenay,  a 
biographer,  that  is  to  say,  a literary  vassal,  bound  by  the 
immemorial  law  of  his  tenure  to  render  homage,  aids,  reliefs, 
and  all  other  customary  services  to  his  lord,  avows  that  he 
cannot  give  an  opinion  about  the  essay  on  Heroic  Virtue, 
because  he  cannot  read  it  without  skipping;  a circumstance 
which  strikes  us  as  peculiarly  strange,  when  we  consider 
how  long  Mr.  Courtenay  was  at  the  India  Board,  and  how 
many  thousand  paragraphs  of  the  copious  official  eloquence 
of  the  East  he  must  have  perused. 

One  of  Sir  William’s  pieces,  however,  deserves  notice, 
not,  indeed,  on  account  of  its  intrinsic  merit,  but  on  account 
of  the  light  which  it  throws  on  some  curious  weaknesses  of 
his  character,  and  on  account  of  the  extraordinary  effects 
which  it  produced  in  the  republic  of  letters.  A most  idle 
$nd  contemptible  controversy  had  arisen  in  France  touch- 
ing the  comparative  mei4t  of  the  ancient  and  modern  writers. 
It  was  certainly  not  to  be  expected  that,  in  that  age,  the 
question  would  be  tried  according  to  those  large  and  philo- 
sophical principles  of  criticism  which  guided  the  judgments 
of  Lessing  and  of  Herder.  But  it  might  have  been  expected 
that  those  who  undertook  to  decide- the  point  would  at  least 
take  the  trouble  to  read  and  understand  the  authors  on 
whose  merits  they  were  to  pronounce.  Now  it  is  no  exag- 
geration to  say  that,  among  the  disputants  who  clamored, 
some  for  the  ancients  and  some  for  the  moderns,  very  few 


8*28 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


were  decently  acquainted  with  either  ancient  or  modeiti 
literature,  and  hardly  one  was  well  acquainted  with  both. 
In  Racine’s  amusing  preface  to  the  Iphigenie  the  reader 
may  find  noticed  a most  ridiculous  mistake  into  which  one 
of  the  champions  of  the  moderns  fell  about  a passage  in  the 
Alcestis  of  Euripides.  Another  writer  is  so  inconceivably 
ignorant  as  to  blame  Homer  for  mixing  the  four  Greek  di- 
alects, Doric,  Ionic,  HSolic,  and  Attic,  just,  says  he,  as  if  a 
French  poet  were  to  put  Gascon  phrases  and  Picard  phrases 
into  the  midst  of  his  pure  Parisian  writing.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  the  defenders  of  the 
ancients  were  entirely  unacquainted  with  the  greatest  pro^ 
ductions  of  later  times  ; nor,  indeed,  were  the  defenders  ol 
the  moderns  better  informed.  The  parallels  which  were 
instituted  in  the  course  of  this  dispute  are  inexpressibly 
ridiculous.  Balzac  was  selected  as  the  rival  of  Cicero.  Cor- 
neille was  said  to  unite  the  merits  of  JEschylus,  Sophocles, 
and  Euripides.  We  should  like  to  see  a Prometheus  after 
Corneille’s  fashion.  The  Provincial  Letters,  masterpieces 
undoubtedly  of  reasoning,  wit,  and  eloquence,  were  pro* 
nounced  to  be  superior  to  all  the  writings  of  Plato,  Cicero, 
and  Lucian  together,  particularly  in  the  art  of  dialogue,  an 
art  in  which,  as  it  happens,  Plato  far  excelled  all  men,  and 
in  which  Pascal,  great  and  admirable  in  other  respects,  is 
notoriously  very  deficient. 

This  childish  controversy  spread  to  England  ; and  some 
mischievous  aaemon  suggested  to  Temple  the  thought  of  un- 
dertaking the  defence  of  the  ancients.  As  to  liis  qualifica- 
tions for  the  task,  it  is  sufficient  to  say,  that  he  knew  not  a 
word  of  Greek.  But  his  vanity  which,  when  he  was  en- 
gaged in  the  conflicts  pi  active  life  and  surrounded  by  rivals, 
Lad  been  kept  in  tolerable  order  by  his  discretion,  now, 
wrhen  he  had  long  lived  in  seclusion,  and  had  become  accus- 
tomed to  regard  himself  as  by  far  the  first  man  of  his  circle, 
rendered  him  blind  to  his  own  deficiencies.  In  an  evil  hour 
be  published  an  Essay  on  Ancient  and  Modern  Learning. 
The  style  of  this  treatise  is  very  good,  the  matter  ludicrous 
and  contemptible  to  the  last  degree.  There  we  read  how 
Lycurgus  travelled  into  India,  and  brought  the  Spartan 
laws  from  that  country;  how  Orpheus  made  voyages  in 
search  of  knowledge,  and  attained  to  a depth  of  learning 
which  has  made  him  renowned  in  all  succeeding  ages ; how 
Pythagoras  passed  twenty-two  years  in  Egypt,  and,  after 
graduating  there,  spent  twelve  years  more  at  Babylon, 


SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


329 


where  the  Magi  admitted  him  ad  eundem  ; how  the  ancient 
Brahmins  lived  two  hundred  years;  how  the  earliest  Greek 
philosophers  foretold  earthquakes  and  plagues,  and  put  dowrn 
riots  by  magic;  and  how  much  Ninus  surpassed  in  abilities 
any  of  his  successors  on  the  throne  of  Assyria.  The  mod- 
erns, Sir  William  owns,  have  found  out  the  circulation  of 
the  blood  ; but,  on  the  other  hand,  they  have  quite  lost  the 
art  of  conjuring ; nor  can  any  modern  fiddler  enchant  fishes, 
fowls,  and  serpents,  by  his  performance.  He  tells  us  that 
“ Thales,  Pythagoras,  Democritus,  Hippocrates,  Plato,  Aris- 
totle, and  Epicurus  made  greater  progresses  in  the  several 
empires  of  science  than  any  of  their  successors  have  since 
been  able  to  reach ; ” which  is  just  as  absurd  as  if  he  had 
said  that  the  greatest  names  in  British  science  are  Merlin, 
Michael  Scott,  Dr.  Sydenham,  and  Lord  Bacon.  Indeed, 
the  manner  in  which  Temple  mixes  the  historical  and  the 
fabulous  reminds  us  of  those  classical  dictionaries,  intended 
for  the  use  of  schools,  in  which  Narcissus  the  lover  of  him- 
self and  Narcissus  the  freedman  of  Claudius,  Pollux  the  son 
of  Jupiter  and  Leda  and  Pollux  the  author  of  the  Onomas- 
ticon,  are  ranged  under  the  same  headings,  and  treated  as 
personages  equally  real.  The  effect  of  this  arrangement  re- 
sembles that  which  would  be  produced  by  a dictionary  of 
modern  names,  consisting  of  such  articles  as  the  following : 
“ Jones,  William,  an  eminent.  Orientalist,  and  one  of  the 
Judges  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Judicature  in  Bengal — Davy, 
a fiend,  who  destroys  ships — Thomas,  a foundling,  brought 
up  by  Mr.  Allworthy.”  It  is  from  such  sources  as  these  that 
Temple  seems  to  have  learned  all  that  he  knew  about  the 
ancients.  He  puts  the  story  of  Orpheus  between  the  Olym- 
pic games  and  the  battle  of  Arbela;  as  if  we  had  exactly  the 
same  reasons  for  believing  that  Orpheus  led  beasts  with  his 
lyre,  which  we  have  for  believing  that  there  were  races  at 
Pisa,  or  that  Alexander  conquered  Darius. 

He  manages  little  better  when  he  comes  to  the  moderns. 
He  gives  us  a catalogue  of  those  whom  he  regards  as  the 
greatest  writers  of  later  times.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that,  in 
his  list  of  Italians,  he  has  omitted  Dante,  Petrarch,  Ariosto, 
and  Tasso  ; in  his  list  of  Spaniards,  Lope  and  Calderon  ; in 
his  list  of  French,  Pascal,  Bossuet,  Moliere,  Corneille,  Racine, 
and  Boileau ; and  in  his  list  of  English,  Chaucer,  Spenser, 
Shakspeare  and  Milton. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  vast  mass  of  absurdity  one  para® 
graph  stands  out  preeminent.  The  doctrine  of  Temple,  not 


330 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


a very  comfortable  doctrine,  is  that  the  human  race  is  con- 
stantly degenerating,  and  that  the  oldest  books  in  every  kind 
are  the  best.  In  confirmation  of  this  notion,  he  remarks 
that  the  Fables  of  JEsop  are  the  best  Fables,  and  the  letters 
of  Phalaris  the  best  Letters  in  the  Avorld.  On  the  merit  cf 
the  Letters  of  Phalaris  he  dwells  with  great  warmth  and 
with  extraordinary  felicity  of  language.  Indeed  we  could 
hardly  select  a more  favorable  specimen  of  the  graceful  and 
easy  majesty  to  which  his  style  sometimes  rises  than  this 
unlucky  passage.  lie  knows,  he  says,  that  some  learned  men, 
or  men  who  pass  for  learned,  such  as  Politian,  have  doubted 
the  genuineness  of  these  letters:  but  of  such  doubts  he 
speaks  writh  the  greatest  contempt.  Now  it  is  perfectly  cer- 
tain, first,  that  the  letters  are  very  bad ; secondly,  that  they 
are  spurious ; and  thirdly,  that,  whether  they  be  bad  or 
good,  spurious  or  genuine,  Temple  could  know  nothing  of 
the  matter ; inasmuch  as  he  was  no  more  able  to  construe 
a line  of  them  than  to  decipher  an  Egyptian  obelisk. 

This  Essay,  silly  as  it  is,  was  exceedingly  well  received, 
both  in  England  and  on  the  Continent.  And  the  reason  is 
evident.  The  classical  scholars  who  saw  its  absurdity  were 
generally  on  the  side  of  the  ancients,  and  were  inclined 
rather  to  veil  than  to  expose  the  blunders  of  an  ally;  the 
champions  of  the  moderns  were  generally  as  ignorant  as 
Temple  himself ; and  the  multitude  was  charmed  by  his  flow- 
ing and  melodious  diction.  He  was  doomed,  however,  to 
smart,  as  he  well  deserved,  for  his  vanity  and  folly. 

Christchurch  at  Oxford  was  then  widely  and  justly  cele- 
brated as  a place  where  the  lighter  parts  of  classical  learn- 
ing were  cultivated  with  success.  With  the  deeper  myste- 
ries of  philology  neither  the  instructors  nor  the  pupils  had 
the  smallest  acquaintance.  They  fancied  themselves  Scali- 
gers,  as  Bentley  scornfully  said,  if  they  could  write  a copy  of 
Latin  verses  with  only  two  or  three  small  faults.  From 
tliis  College  proceeded  a new  edition  of  the  Letters  of 
Phalaris,  which  were  rare,  and  had  been  in  request  since  the 
appearance  of  Temple’s  Essay.  The  nominal  editor  ivas 
Charles  Boyle,  a young  man  of  noble  family  and  promising 
parts ; but  some  older  members  of  the  society  lent  their  as- 
sistance. While  this  work  was  in  preparation,  an  idle  quar- 
rel, occasioned,  it  should  seem,  by  the  negligence  and  mis- 
representations of  a bookseller  arose  between  Boyle  and  the 
King’s  Librarian,  Richard  Bentley.  Boyle,  in  the  preface  to 
his  edition,  inserted  a bitter  reflection  on  Bentley.  Bentley 


gift  WILLIAM  TEMPL&. 


831 


avenged  himself  by  proving  that  the  Epistles  of  Phalaris 
were  forgeries,  and  in  his  remarks  on  this  subject  treated 
Temple  not  indecently,  but  with  no  great  reverence. 

Temple,  who  was  quite  unaccustomed  to  any  but  the 
most  respectful  usage,  who,  even  while  engaged  in  politics, 
had  always  shrunk  from  all  rude  collision  and  had  generally 
succeeded  in  avoiding  it,  and  whose  sensitiveness  had  been 
increased  by  many  years  of  seclusion  and  flattery,  was 
moved  to  most  violent  resentment,  complained,  very  un- 
justly, of  Bentley’s  foul-mouthed  raillery,  and  declared  that 
he  had  commenced  an  answer,  but  had  laid  it  aside,  “ hav- 
ing no  mind  to  enter  the  lists  with  such  a mean,  d ull,  un- 
mannerly pedant.”  Whatever  may  be  thought  of  the  temper 
which  Sir  William  showed  on  this  occasion,  we  cannot  too 
highly  applaud  his  discretion  in  not  finishing  and  publishing 
his  answer,  which  would  certainly  have  been  a most  ex- 
traordinary performance. 

He  was  not,  however,  without  defenders.  Like  Hector, 
when  struck  down  prostrate  by  Ajax,  he  was  in  an  instant 
covered  by  a thick  crowd  of  shields. 

Ovrig  eSvvijcraTO  rrotpeva  \au>v 
Ovracrai,  ov&e  fia\eZv  nplv  yap  Treptorjaav  apicrrot, 
nouA.u5a/xa?  re,  kox  Aiveios,  pa\  6105  ’Ay^t/cop, 

’S.apnrjSuiv  t ’ ap^os  Avkluiv,  /cat  I'Aau/co?  ap.vp.uiv, 

Christchurch  was  up  in  arms  ; and  though  that  College  seems 
then  to  have  been  almost  destitute  of  severe  and  accurate 
learning,  no  academical  society  could  show  a greater  array 
of  orators,  wits,  politicians,  bustling  adventurers  who  united 
the  superficial  accomplishments  of  the  scholar  with  the  man- 
ners and  arts  of  the  man  of  the  world ; and  this  formidable 
body  resolved  to  try  how  far  smart  repartees,  well-turned 
sentences,  confidence,  puffing,  and  intrigue  could,  on  the 
question  whether  a Greek  book  were  or  were  not  genuine, 
supply  the  place  of  a little  knowledge  of  Greek. 

Out  came  the  Reply  to  Bentley,  bearing  the  name  of 
Boyle,  but  in  truth  written  by  Atterbury  with  the  assistance 
of  Smalridge  and  others.  A most  remarkable  book  it  is, 
and  often  reminds  us  of  Goldsmith’s  observation,  that  the 
F rench  would  be  the  best  cooks  in  the  world  if  they  had 
any  butcher’s  meat;  for  that  they  can  make  ten  dishes  out 
of  a nettle-top.  It  really  deserves  the  praise,  whatever  that 
praise  may  be  worth,  of  being  the  best  book  ever  written  by 
any  man  on  the  wrong  side  of  a question  of  which  he  was 
profoundly  ignorant.  The  learning  of  the  confederacy  is 


332  MACAULAY^  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

that  of  a schoolboy,  and  not  of  an  extraordinary  schoolboy 
but  it  is  used  with  the  skill  and  address  of  most  able,  artful, 
and  experienced  men ; it  is  beaten  out  to  the  thinnest  leaf, 
and  is  disposed  in  such  a wray  as  to  seem  ten  times  larger 
than  it  is.  The  dexterity  with  which  the  confedarates  avoid 
grappling  with  those  parts  of  the  subject  with  which  they 
know  themselves  to  be  incompetent  to  deal  is  quite  wonder 
ful.  Now  and  then,  indeed,  they  commit  disgraceful  blun 
ders,  for  which  old  Busby,  under  wThom  they  had  studied, 
would  have  whipped  them  all  round.  But  this  circumstance 
only  raises  our  opinion  of  the  talents  which  made  such  a 
fight  with  such  scanty  means.  Let  readers  who  are  not  ac- 
quainted wTith  the  controversy  imagine  a Frenchman,  who 
has  acquired  just  English  enough  to  read  the  Spectator  with 
a dictionary,  coming  forward  to  defend  the  genuineness  ol 
Ireland’s  V ortigern  against  Malone ; and  they  will  have  some 
notion  of  the  feat  which  Atterbury  had  the  audacity  to  un- 
dertake, and  which,  for  a time,  it  was  really  thought  that  he 
had  performed. 

The  illusion  was  soon  dispelled.  Bentley’s  answer  for- 
ever settled  the  question,  and  established  his  claim  to  the 
first  place  amongst  classical  scholars.  Nor  do  those  do  him 
justice  who  represent  the  controversy  as  a battle  between 
wit  and  learning.  For  though  there  is  a lamentable  defi- 
ciency of  learning  on  the  side  of  Boyle,  there  is  no  want  of 
wit  on  the  side  of  Bentley.  Other  qualities,  too,  as  valuable 
as  either  wit  or  learning,  appear  conspicuously  in  Bentley’s 
book,  a rare  sagacity,  an  unrivalled  power  of  combination, 
a perfect  mastery  of  all  the  weapons  of  logic.  He  was 
greatly  indebted  to  the  furious  outcry  which  the  misrepre- 
sentations, sarcasms,  and  intrigues  of  his  opponents  had 
raised  against  him  an  outcry  in  which  fashionable  and  polit- 
ical circles  joined,  and  which  wTas  echoed  by  thousands  who 
did  not  know  whether  Phalaris  ruled  in  Sicily  or  in  Siam. 
His  spirit,  daring  even  to  rashness,  self-confident  even  to 
negligence,  and  proud  even  to  insolent  ferocity,  was  awed 
for  the  first  and  fpr  the  last  time,  awed,  not  into  meanness 
or  cowardice,  but  into  wariness  and  sobriety.  For  once  he 
ran  no  risks , he  left  no  crevice  unguarded ; he  wantoned 
in  no  paradoxes;  above  ah,  he  returned  no  railing  for  the 
railing  of  his  enemies.  In  almost  everything  that  he  has 
written  we  can  discover  proofs  of  genius  and  learning.  But 
it  is  only  here  that  his  genius  and  learning  appear  to  have 
been  constantly  under  the  guidance  of  good  sense  and  good 


SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE,  38& 

temper.  Here,  we  find  none  of  that  besotted  reliance  on 
his  own  powers  and  on  his  own  luck,  which  he  showed  when 
he  undertook  to  edit  Milton  ; none  of  that  perverted  inge- 
nuity  which  deforms  so  many  of  his  notes  on  Horace  ; none 
of  that  disdainful  carelessness  by  which  he  laid  himself  open 
to  the  keen  and  dexterous  thrust  of  Middleton ; none  of 
that  extravagant  vaunting  and  savage  scurrility  by  which 
he  afterwards  dishonored  his  studies  and  his  profession^ 
and  degraded  himself  almost  to  the  level  of  De  Pauw. 

Temple  did  not  live  to  witness  the  utter  and  irreparable 
defeat  of  his  champions.  He  died,  indeed,  at  a fortunate 
moment,  just  after  the  appearance  of  Boyle’s  book,  and 
while  all  England  was  laughing  at  the  way  in  which  the 
Christchurch  men  had  handled  the  pedant.  In  Boyle’s  book 
Temple  was  praised  in  the  highest  terms,  and  compared  to 
Memmius  : not  a very  happy  comparison ; for  almost  the 
only  particular  information  which  we  have  about  Memmius 
is  that,  in  agitated  times,  he  thought  it  his  duty  to  attend 
exclusively  to  politics,  and  that  his  friends  could  not  ven- 
ture, except  when  the  Republic  was  quiet  and  prosperous, 
to  intrude  on  him  with  their  philosophical  and  poetical  pro- 
ductions. It  is  on  this  account  that  Lucretius  puts  up  the 
exquisitely  beautiful  prayer  for  peace  with  which  his  poems 
opens : 

“ Nam  neque  nos  agere  hoc  patria'i  tempore  iniquo 
Possumus  aequo  animo,  nec  Memmi  clara  propago 
Talibus  in  rebus  communi  deesse  saluti.” 

This  description  is  surely  by  no  means  applicable  to  a 
statesman  who  had,  through  the  whole  course  of  his  life, 
carefully  avoided  exposing  himself  in  seasons  of  trouble  ; 
who  had  repeatedly  refused,  in  most  critical  conjunctures, 
to  be  Secretary  of  State ; and  who  now,  in  the  midst  of 
revolutions,  plots,  foreign  and  domestic  wars,  was  quietly 
writing  nonsense  about  the  visits  of  Lycurgus  to  the  Brah- 
mins and  the  tunes  which  Arion  played  to  the  Dolphin. 

We  must  not  omit  to  mention  that,  while  the  contro- 
versy about  Phalaris  was  raging,  Swift,  in  order  to  show  his 
zea:  and  attachment,  wrote  the  Battle  of  the  Books,  the 
earnest  piece  in  which  his  peculiar  talents  were  discernible. 
We  may  observe  that  the  bitter  dislike  of  Bentley,  be- 
queathed by  Temple  to  Swift,  seems  to  have  been  communi- 
cated by  Swift  to  Pope,  10  Arbuthnot,  and  to  others,  who 
continued  to  tease  the  great  critic,  long  after  he  had  shaken 
hands  very  cordially  both  with  Boyle  and  with  Atterbury, 


334  MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  AVRIttNGfc. 

Sir  William  Temple  died  at  Moor  Park  in  January, 
1699.  He  appears  to  have  suffered  no  intellectual  decay. 
His  heart  was  buried  under  a sun-dial  which  still  stands  in 
his  favorite  garden.  His  body  was  laid  in  Westminster 
Abbey  by  the  side  of  his  wife ; and  a place  hard  by  was  set 
apart  for  Lady  Giffard,  who  long  survived  him.  Swift  was 
his  literary  executor,  superintended  the  publication  of  his 
Letters  and  Memoirs,  and,  in  the  performance  of  this  office, 
had  some  acrimonious  contests  with  the  family. 

Of  Temple’s  character  little  more  remains  to  be  said. 
Burnet  accuses  him  of  holding  irreligious  opinions,  and 
corrupting  everybody  who  came  near  him.  But  the  vague 
assertion  of  so  rash  and  partial  a writer  as  Burnet,  about  a 
man  with  whom,  as'  far  as  we  know,  he  never  exchanged  a 
word,  is  of  little  weight.  It  is,  indeed,  by  no  means  improb- 
able that  Temple  may  have  been  a freethinker.  The 
Osbornes  thought  him  so  when  he  was  a very  young  man. 
And  it  is  certain  that  a large  proportion  of  the  gentlemen 
of  rank  and  fashion  who  made  their  entrance  into  society 
while  the  Puritan  party  was  at  the  height  of  power,  and 
while  the  memory  of  the  reign  of  that  party  was  still  recent, 
conceived  a strong  disgust  for  all  religion.  The  imputation 
was  common  between  Temple  and  all  the  most  distinguished 
courtiers  of  the  age.  Rochester  and  Buckingham  were 
open  scoffers,  and  Mulgrave  very  little  better.  Shaftesbury 
though  more  guarded,  was  supposed  to  agree  with  them  in 
opinion.  All  the  three  noblemen  who  were  Temple:s  col- 
leagues during  the  short  time  of  his  sitting  in  the  Cabinet 
were  of  very  indifferent  repute  as  to  orthodoxy.  Halifax, 
indeed,  was  generally  considered  as  an  atheist;  but  he 
solemnly  denied  the  charge ; and,  indeed,  the  truth  seems 
to  be  that  he  was  more  religiously  disposed  than  most  of 
the  statesmen  of  that  age,  though  two  impulses  which  were 
unusually  strong  in  him,  a passion  for  ludicrous  images,  and 
a passion  for  subtle  speculations,  sometimes  prompted  him 
to  talk  on  serious  subjects  in  a manner  which  gave  great 
and  just  offence.  It  is  not  unlikely  that  Temple,  who  sel- 
dom went  below  the  surface  of  any  question,  may  have  been 
infected  with  the  prevailing  skepticism.  All  that  we  can 
say  on  the  subject  is,  that  there  is  no  trace  of  impiety  in  his 
works,  and  that  the  ease  with  which  he  carried  his  election 
for  an  university,  where  the  majority  of  the  voters  were 
clergymen,  though  it  proves  nothing  as  to  his  opinions,  must, 
we  think,  be  considered  as  proving  that  he  was  not,  aa 


GLADSTONE  ON  CHUKCH  AND  STATE. 


335 


Burnet  seems  to  insinuate,  in  the  habit  of  talking  atheism  to 
all  who  came  near  him. 

Temple,  however,  will  scarcely  carry  with  him  any  great 
accession  of  authority  to  the  side  either  of  religion  or  of 
infidelity.  He  was  no  profound  thinker.  He  was  merely  a 
man  of  lively  parts  and  quick  observation,  a man  of  the 
world  among  men  of  letters,  a man  of  letters  among  men  of 
the  world.  Mere  scholars  were  dazzled  by  the  Ambassador 
and  Cabinet  counsellor;  mere  politicians  by  the  Essayist 
and  Historian.  But  neither  as  a writer  nor  as  a statesman 
can  we  allot  to  him  any  very  high  place.  As  a man,  he 
seems  to  us  to  have  been  excessively  selfish,  but  very  sober, 
wary,  and  far-sighted  in  his  selfishness  ; to  have  known  bet- 
ter than  most  people  what  he  really  wanted  in  life  ; and  to 
have  pursued  what  he  wanted  with  much  more  than  ordi- 
nary steadiness  and  sagacity,  never  suffering  himself  to  be 
drawn  aside  either  by  bad  or  by  good  feelings.  It  was  his 
constitution  to  dread  failure  more  than  he  desired  Success, 
to  prefer  security,  comfort,  repose,  leisure,  to  the  turmoil 
and  anxiety  which  are  inseparable  from  greatness  ; and  this 
natural  languor  of  mind,  when  contrasted  with  the  malig- 
nant energy  of  the  keen  and  restless  spirits  among  whom 
his  lot  was  cast,  sometimes  appears  to  resemble  the  modera- 
tion of  virtue.  But  we  must  own  that  he  seems  to  us  to 
sink  into  littleness  and  meanness  when  we  compare  him,  we 
do  not  say  with  any  high  ideal  standard  of  morality,  but 
with  many  of  those  frail  men  who,  aiming  at  noble  ends, 
but  often  drawn  from  the  right  path  by  strong  passions  and 
strong  temptations,  have  left  to  posterity  a doubtful  and 
checkered  fame. 


GLADSTONE  ON  CHURCH  AND  STATE.  * 

( Edinburgh  Review , A pril,  1839.) 

The  author  of  this  volume  is  a young  man  of  unblem- 
ished character,  and  of  distinguished  parliamentary  talents, 
the  rising  hope  of  those  stern  and  unbending  Tories  who 
follow,  reluctantly  and  mutinously,  a leader  whose  experk 

* The  State  in  its  Relations  with  the  Church.  By  W.  E.  Gladstone,  Esq., 
Student  of  Christ  Church,  and  M.  P,  for  Newark.  Second  Edition 

London,  1839, 


336  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

ence  and  eloquence  are  indispensable  to  them,  but  whose 
cautious  temper  and  moderate  opinions  they  abhor.  It 
would  not  be  at  all  strange  if  Mr.  Gladstone  were  one  of  the 
most  unpopular  men- in  England.  But  we  believe  that  we 
do  him  no  more  than  justice  when  we  say  that  his  abilities 
and  demeanor  have  obtained  for  him  the  respect  and  good 
will  of  all  parties.  His  first  appearance  in  the  character  of 
an  author  is  therefore  an  interesting  event ; and  it  is  natural 
that  the  gentle  wishes  of  the  public  should  go  with  him  to 
his  trial. 

W e are  much  pleased,  without  any  reference  to  the  sound- 
ness or  unsoundness  of  Mr.  Gladstone’s  theories,  to  see  a 
grave  and  elaborate  treatise  on  an  important  part  of  the 
Philosophy  of  Government  proceed  from  the  pen  of  a young 
man  who  is  rising  to  eminence  in  the  House  of  Commons. 
There  is  little  danger  that  people  engaged  in  the  conflicts  of 
active  life  will  be  too  much  addicted  to  general  speculation. 
The  opposite  vice  is  that  which  most  easily  besets  them. 
The  times  and  tides  of  business  and  debates  tarry  for  no 
man.  A politician  must  often  talk  and  act  before  he  has 
thought  and  read.  He  may  be  very  ill  informed  respecting 
a question  ; all  his  notions  about  it  may  be  vague  and  inac- 
curate ; but  speak  he  must ; and  if  he  is  a man  of  ability,  of 
tact,  and  of  intrepidity,  he  soon  finds  that,  even  under  such 
circumstances,  it  is  possible  to  speak  successfully.  He  finds 
that  there  is  a great  difference  between  the  effect  of  written 
words,  which  are  perused  and  reperused  in  the  stillness  of 
the  closet,  and  the  effect  of  spoken  words  which,  set  off  by 
the  graces  of  utterance  and  gesture,  vibrate  for  a single  mo- 
ment on  the  ear.  He  finds  that  he  may  blunder  without 
much  chance  of  being  detected,  that  he  may  reason  sophis- 
tically,  and  escape  unrefuted.  He  finds  that,  even  on  knotty 
questions  of  trade  and  legislation,  he  can,  without  reading 
ten  pages,  or  thinking  ten  minutes,  draw  forth  loud  plaudits, 
and  sit  down  with  the  credit  of  having  made  an  excellent 
speech.  Lysias,  says  Plutarch,  wrote  a defence  for  a man 
who  was  to  be  tried  before  one  of  the  Athenian  tribunals. 
Long  before  the  defendant  had  learned  the  speech  by  heart, 
he  became  so  much  dissatisfied  with  it  that  he  went  in  great 
distress  to  the  author.  “ I was  delighted  with  your  speech 
the  first  time  I read  it ; but  I liked  it  less  the  second  time, 
and  still  less  the  third  time  ; and  now  it  seems  to  me  to  be 
no  defence  at  all.”  “ My  good  friend,”  said  Lysias,  “ you 
quite  forget  that  the  judges  are  to  hear  it  only  once.”  The 


GLADSTONE  ON  CHURCH  AND  STATE. 


387 


case  is  the  same  in  the  English  Parliament.  It  would  be  as 
idle  in  an  orator  to  waste  deep  meditation  and  long  research 
on  his  speeches,  as  it  would  be  in  the  manager  of  a theatre 
to  adorn  all  the  crowd  of  courtiers  and  ladies  who  cross 
over  the  stage  in  a procession  with  real  pearls  and  diamonds. 
It  is  not  by  accuracy  or  profundity  that  men  become  the 
masters  of  great  assemblies.  And  why  be  at  the  charge  of 
providing  logic  of  the  best  quality,  wThen  a very  inferior 
article  will  be  equally  acceptable  ? Why  go  as  deep  into  a 
question  as  Burke,  only  in  order  to  be,  like  Burke,  coughed 
down,  or  left  speaking  to  green  benches  and  red  boxes  ? This 
has  long  appeared  to  us  to  be  the  most  serious  of  the  evils 
which  are  to  be  set  off  against  the  many  blessings  of  popular 
government.  It  is  a fine  and  true  saying  of  Bacon,  that 
reading  makes  a full  man,  talking  a ready  man,  and  writing 
an  exact  man.  The  tendency  of  institutions  like  those  of  Eng- 
land is  to  encourage  readiness  in  public  men,  at  the  expense 
both  of  fullness  and  of  exactness.  The  keenest  and  most 
vigorous  minds  of  every  generation,  minds  often  admirably 
fitted  for  the  investigation  of  truth,  are  habitually  employed 
in  producing  arguments  such  as  no  man  of  sense  would  ever 
put  into  a treatise  intended  for  publication,  arguments  which 
are  just  good  enough  to  be  used  once,  when  aided  by  fluent 
delivery  and  pointed  language.  The  habit  of  discussing 
questions  in  this  way  necessarily  reacts  on  the  intellects  of 
our  ablest  men,  particularly  of  those  who  are  introduced 
into  parliament  at  a very  early  age,  before  their  minds  have 
expanded  to  full  maturity.  The  talent  for  debate  is  de- 
veloped in  such  men  to  a degree  which,  to  the  multitude, 
seems  as  marvellous  as  the  performance  of  an  Italian  Im- 
provisator e.  But  they  are  fortunate  indeed  if  they  retain 
unimpaired  the  faculties  which  are  required  for  close  reason- 
ing or  for  enlarged  speculation.  Indeed,  we  should  sooner 
expect  a great  original  work  on  political  science,  such  a 
work,  for  example,  as  the  Wealth  of  Nations,  frcm  an 
apothecary  in  a country  town,  or  from  a minister  in  the 
Hebrides,  than  from  a statesman  who,  ever  since  he  was  one- 
and-twenty,  had  been  a distinguished  debater  in  the  House 
of  Commons. 

We  therefore  hail  with  pleasure,  though  assuredly  not 
with  unmixed  pleasure,  the  appearance  of  this  work.  That 
a young  politician  should,  in  the  intervals  afforded  by  his 
parliamentary  avocations,  have  constructed  and  propounded, 
with  much  study  and  mental  toil,  an  original  theory  on  a 
Vol.  II.— 22 


338  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

great  political  problem,  is  a circumstance  which,  abstracted 
from  all  consideration  of  .the  soundness  or  unsoundness  of 
his  opinions,  must  be  considered  as  highly  creditable  to  him. 

We  certainly  cannot  wish  that  Mr.  Gladstone’s  doctrines 
may  become  fashionable  among  public  men.  But  we 
heartily  wish  that  his  laudable  desire  to  penetrate  beneath 
the  surface  of  questions,  and  to  arrive,  by  long  and  intent 
meditation,  at  the  knowledge  of  great  general  laws,  were 
much  more  fashionable  than  we  at  all  expect  it  to  be- 
come. ^ 

Mr.  Gladstone  seems  to  us  to  be,  in  many  respects,  ex- 
ceedingly well  qualified  for  philosophical  investigation.  His 
mind  is  of  large  grasp  ; nor  is  he  deficient  in  dialectical  skill. 

But  he  does  not  give  his  intellect  fair  play.  There  is  no 
want  of  light,  but  a great  want  of  what  Bacon  would  have 
called  dry  light.  Whatever  Mr.  Gladstone  sees  is  refracted 
and  distorted  by  a false  medium  of  passions  and  prejudices. 

His  style  bears  a remarkable  analogy  to  his  mode  of  think- 
ing, and  indeed  exercises  great  influence  on  his  mode  of  i 

thinking.  His  rhetoric,  though  often  good  of  its  kind,  § 

darkens  and  perplexes  the  logic  which  it  should  illustrate. 
Half  his  acuteness  and  diligence,  with  a barren  imagination 
and  a scant  vocabulary,  would  have  saved  him  from  almost 
all  his  mistakes.  He  has  one  gift  most  dangerous  to  a specu- 
lator, a vast  command  of  a kind  of  language,  grave  and  ma- 
jestic, but  of  vague  and  uncertain  import;  of  a Kind  of 
language  which  affects  us  much  in  the  same  way  m which 
the  lofty  diction  of  the  Chorus  of  Clouds  affected  the  simple- 
hearted  Athenians. 

u)  yr\  tov  (J>de y/xaros,  ws  tepbv,  real  ae/xvov,  /cal  reparioSeg. 

When  propositions  have  been  established,  and  nothing 
remains  but  to  amplify  and  decorate  them,  this  dim  mag- 
nificence may  be  in  place.  But  if  it  is  admitted  into  a 
demonstration,  it  is  very  much  worse  than  absolute  non- 
sense; just  as  that  transparent  haze,  through  which  the 
sailor  sees  capes  and  mountains  of  false  sizes  and  in  false  T 
bearings,  is  more  dangerous  than  utter  darkness.  Now,  Mro  * 
Gladstone  is  fond  of  employing  the  phraseology  of  which  we 
speak  in  those  parts  of  his  works  which  require  the  utmost 
perspicuity  and  precision  of  which  human  language  is  capa- 
ble ; and  in  this  way  he  deludes  first  himself,  and  then  his 
readers.  The  foundations  of  his  theory,  which  ought  to  be 
buttresses  of  adamant,  are  made  out  of  the  flimsy  materials 


CLabsTokIe  ok  ailment  aKb  stat&*  $8S 

which  aro  fit  only  for  perorations.  This  fault  is  one  which 
no  subsequent  care  or  industry  can  correct.  The  more 
strictly  Mr.  Gladstone  reasons  on  his  premises,  the  more  ab- 
surd are  the  conclusions  which  he  brings  out ; and,  when  at 
last  his  good  sense  and  good  nature  recoil  from  the  horrible 
practical  inferences  to  which  his  theory  leads,  he  is  reduced 
sometimes  to  take  refuge  in  arguments  inconsistent  with  his 
fundamental  doctrines,  and  sometimes  to  escape  from  the 
legitimate  consequences  of  his  false  principles,  under  cover 
of  equally  false  history. 

It  would  be  unjust  not  to  say  that  this  book,  though  not 
a good  book,  shows  more  talent  than  many  good  books.  It 
abounds  with  eloquent  and  ingenious  passages.  It  bears  the 
signs  of  much  patient  thought.  It  is  written  throughout 
with  excellent  taste  and  excellent  temper;  nor  does  it,  so 
far  as  we  have  observed,  contain  one  expression  unworthy 
of  a gentleman,  a scholar,  or  a Christian.  But  the  doctrines 
which  are  put  forth  in  it  appear  to  us,  after  full  and  calm 
consideration,  to  be  false,  to  be  in  the  highest  degree  per- 
nicious, and  to  be  such  as,  if  followed  out  in  practice  to  their 
legitimate  consequences,  would  inevitably  produce  a disso- 
lution of  society ; and  for  this  opinion  we  shall  proceed  to 
give  our  reasons  with  that  freedom  which  the  importance  of 
the  subject  requires,  and  which  Mr.  Gladstone,  both  by  pre- 
cept and  by  example,  invites  us  to  use,  but,  we  hope,  with- 
out rudeness,  and,  we  are  sure,  without  malevolence. 

Before  we  enter  on  an  examination  of  this  theory,  we 
wish  to  guard  ourselves  against  one  misconception.  It  is 
possible  that  some  persons  who  have  read  Mr.  Gladstone’s 
hook  carelessly,  and  others  who  have  merely  heard  in  con- 
versation, or  seen  in  a newspaper,  that  the  member  for 
Newark  has  written  in  defence  of  the  Church  of  England 
against  the  supporters  of  the  voluntary  system,  may  imagine 
that  we  are  writing  in  defence  of  the  voluntary  system,  and 
that  we  desire  the  abolition  of  the  Established  Church.  This 
is  not  the  case.  It  would  be  as  unjust  to  accuse  us  of  at- 
tacking the  Church,  because  we  attack  Mr.  Gladstone’s  doc- 
trines, as  it  would  be  to  accuse  Locke  of  wishing  for  an- 
archy,  because  he  refuted  Filmer’s  patriarchal  theory  of 
government,  or  to  accuse  Blackstone  of  recommending  the 
confiscation  of  ecclesiastical  property,  because  he  denied 
that  the  right  of  the  rector  to  tithe  was  derived  from  the 
Levitical  law.  It  is  to  be  observed,  that  Mr.  Gladstone 
vests  his  case  on  entirely  new  grounds,  and  does  not  differ 


340  - MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

more  widely  from  us  than  from  some  of  those  who  have 
hitherto  been  considered  as  the  most  illustrious  champions 
of  the  Church.  He  is  not  content  with  the  Ecclesiastical 
Polity,  and  rejoices  that  the  latter  part  of  that  celebrated 
work  “ does  not  carry  with  it  the  weight  of  Hooker’s  plen- 
ary authority.”  He  is  not  content  with  Bishop  Warburton’s 
Alliance  of  Church  and  State.  “ The  propositions  of  that 
work  generally,”  he  says,  “ are  to  be  received  with  qualifica- 
tion;” and  he  agrees  with  Bolingbroke  in  thinking  that 
Warburton’s  whole  theory  rests  on  a fiction.  He  is  still  less 
satisfied  with  Paley’s  defence  of  the  Church,  which  he  pro- 
nounces to  be  “ tainted  by  the  original  vice  of  false  ethical 
principles,”  and  “ full  of  the  seeds  of  evil.”  He  conceives 
that  Dr.  Chalmers  has  taken  a partial  view  of  the  subject, 
and  “ put  forth  much  questionable  matter.”  In  truth,  on 
almost  every  point  on  which  we  are  opposed  to  Mr.  Glad- 
stone, we  have  on  our  side  the  authority  of  some  divine, 
eminent  as  a defender  of  existing  establishments. 

Mr.  Gladstone’s  whole  theory  rests  on  this  great  funda- 
mental proposition,  that  the  propagation  of  religious  truth 
is  one  of  the  principal  ends  of  government,  as  government. 

If  Mr.  Gladstone  has  not  proved  this  proposition,  his  system 
vanishes  at  once. 

We  are  desirous,  before  we  enter  on  the  discussion  of 
this  important  question,  to  point  out  clearly  a distinction 
which,  though  very  obvious,  seems  to  be  overlooked  by 
many  excellent  people.  In  their  opinion,  to  say  that  the 
ends  of  government  are  temporal  and  not  spiritual  is  tan- 
tamount to  saying  that  the  temporal  welfare  of  man  is  of 
more  importance  than  his  spiritual  welfare.  But  this  is  an 
entire  mistake.  The  question  is  not  whether  spiritual  inter-  j 
ests  be  or  be  not  superior  in  importance  to  temporal  inter- 
ests ; but  whether  the  machinery  which  happens  at  any  mo- 
ment to  be  employed  for  the  purpose  of  protecting  certain 
temporal  interests  of  a society  be  necessarily  such  a machin-  ; 
ery  as  is  fitted  to  promote  the  spiritual  interests  of  that  so- 
ciety. Without  a division  of  labor  the  world  could  not  go 
on.  It  is  of  very  much  more  importance  that  men  should 
have  food  than  that  they  should  have  pianofortes.  Yet  it 
by  no  means  follows  that  every  pianoforte  maker  ought  to 
add  the  business  of  a baker  to  his  own  ; for,  if  he  did  so,  we 
should  have  both  much  worse  music  and  much  worse  bread. 

It  is  of  much  more  importance  that  the  knowledge  of  relig- 
ious truth  should  be  wisely  diffused  than  that  the  art  of 


GLADSTONE  ON  CHURCH  AND  STATfi.  841 

sculpture  should  flourish  among  us.  Yet  it  by  no  means  fol- 
lows that  the  Royal  Academy  ought  to  unite  with  its  pres- 
ent functions  those  of  the  Society  for  Promoting  Christian 
Knowledge,  to  distribute  theological  tracts,  to  send  forth 
missionaries,  to  turn  out  Nollekens  for  being  a Catholic, 
Bacon  for  being  a Methodist,  and  Flaxman  for  being  a Swe- 
denborgian.  For  the  effect  of  such  folly  would  be  that  we 
should  have  the  worst  possible  Academy  of  Arts,  and  the 
worst  possible  Society  for  the  Promotion  of  Christian  Knowl- 
edge. The  community,  it  is  plain,  would  be  thrown  into 
universal  confusion,  if  it  were  supposed  to  be  the  duty  of 
every  association  which  is  formed  for  one  good  object  to 
promote  every  other  good  object. 

As  to  some  of  the  ends  of  civil  government,  all  people 
are  agreed.  That  it  is  designed  to  protect  our  persons  and 
our  property ; that  it  is  designed  to  compel  us  to  satisfy  our 
wants,  not  by  rapine,  but  by  industry  ; that  it  is  designed 
to  compel  us  to  decide  our  differences,  not  by  the  strong 
hand,  but  by  arbitration  ; that  it  is  designed  to  direct  our 
whole  force,  as  that  of  one  man,  against  any  other  society 
which  may  offer  us  injury ; these  are  propositions  which 
will  hardly  be  disputed. 

Now  these  are  matters  in  which  man,  without  any  refer- 
ence to  any  higher  being,  or  to  any  future  state,  is  very 
deeply  interested.  Every  human  being,  be  he  idolator,  Ma- 
hometan, Jew,  Papist,  Socinian,  De^st,  or  Atheist,  naturally 
loves  life,  shrinks  from  pain,  desires  comforts  which  can  be 
enjoyed  only  in  communities  where  property  is  secure.  To 
be  murdered,  to  be  tortured,  to  be  robbed,  to  be  sold  into 
slavery,  these  are  evils  from  which  men  of  every  religion, 
and  men  of  no  religion,  wish  to  be  protected  ; and  therefore 
it  will  hardly  be  disputed  that  men  of  every  religion,  and  of 
no  religion,  have  thus  far  ? common  interest  in  being  well 
governed. 

But  the  hopes  and  ffnrs  of  man  are  not  limited  to  this 
short  life,  and  to  this  visible  world.  He  finds  himself  sur- 
rounded by  the  signs  )f  a power  and  wisdom  higher  than 
his  own ; and,  in  all  ages  and  nations,  men  of  all  orders  of 
intellect,  from  Bacon  and  Newton  down  to  the  rudest  tribes 
of  cannibals,  ba^e  believed  in  the  existence  of  some  superior 
mind.  Thus  far  the  voice  of  mankind  is  almost  unanimous. 
But  whether  there  be  one  God  or  many,  what  may  be  God’s 
natural  ui>d  what  His  moral  attributes,  in  what  relation  His 
(ireatures  stand  to  Him,  whether  He  have  ever  disclosed 


342  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  waitings. 

Himself  to  us  by  any  other  revelation  than  that  which  is 
written  in  all  the  parts  of  the  glorious  and  well-ordered 
world  which  He  has  made,  whether  His  revelation  be  con- 
tained in  any  permanent  record,  how  that  record  should  be 
interpreted,  and  whether  it  have  pleased  Him  to  appoint  any 
unerring  interpreter  on  earth,  these  are  questions  respecting 
which  there  exists  the  widest  diversity  of  opinion,  and  re- 
specting some  of  which  a large  part  of  our  race  has,  ever 
since  the  dawn  of  regular  history,  been  deplorably  in  error. 

Now  here  are  two  great  objects : one  is  the  protection  of 
the  persons  and  estates  of  citizens  from  injury;  the  other  is 
the  propagation  of  ^ligious  truth.  No  two  objects  more 
entirely  distinct  can  well  be  imagined.  The  former  belongs 
wholly  to  the  visible  and  tangible  world  in  which  we  live  : 
the  latter  belongs  to  that  higher  world  which  is  beyond  the 
reach  of  our  senses.  The  former  belongs  to  this  life ; the 
latter  to  that  which  is  to  come.  Men  who  are  perfectly 
agreed  as  to  the  importance  of  the  former  object,  and  as  to 
the  way  of  obtaining  it,  differ  as  widely  as  possible  respect- 
ing the  latter  object.  We  must,  therefore,  pause  before  we 
admit  that  the  persons,  be  they  who  they  may,  wdio  are  in- 
trusted with  power  for  the  promotion  of  the  former  object, 
ought  always  to  use  that  power  for  the  promotion  of  the 
latter  object. 

Mr.  Gladstone  conceives  that  the  duties  of  governments 
are  paternal ; a doctrine  which  we  shall  not  believe  till  he 
can  show  us  some  government  which  loves  its  subjects  as  a 
father  loves  his  child,  and  which  is  as  superior  in  intelligence 
to  its  subjects  as  a father  is  to  a child.  He  tells  in  lofty, 
though  somewhat  distinct  language,  that  “ Government  oc- 
cupies in  moral  the  place  of  to  -av  in  physical  science.”  If 
government  be  indeed  to  nav  in  moral  science,  we  do  not 
understand  why  rulers  should  not  assume  all  the  functions 
which  Plato  assigned  to  them.  Why  should  they  not  take 
away  the  child  from  the  mother,  select  the  nurse,  regulate 
the  school,  overlook  the  playground,  fix  the  hours  of  labor 
and  of  recreation,  prescribe  what  ballads  shall  be  sung,  what 
tunes  shall  be  played,  what  books  shall  be  read,  what  physic 
shall  be  swallowed?  Why  should  they  not  chose  our  wives, 
limit  our  expenses,  and  stint  us  to  a certain  number  of  dishes 
of  meat,  of  glasses  of  wine,  and  of  cups  of  tea?  Plato, 
whose  hardihood  in  speculation  was  perhaps  more  wonder- 
ful than  any  other  peculiarity  of  his  extraordinary  mind, 
and  who  shrank  from  nothing  to  which  his  principles  led, 


GLADSTONE  ON  CHtJBCH  AND  STATE. 


343 


went  this  whole  length.  Mr.  Gladstone  is  not  so  intrepid 
He  contents  himself  with  laying  down  this  proposition,  that, 
whatever  be  the  body  which  in  any  community  is  employed 
to  protect  the  persons  and  property  of  men,  that  body  ought 
also,  in  its  corporate  capacity,  to  profess  a religion,  to  em- 
ploy its  power  for  the  propagation  of  that  religion,  and  to 
require  conformity  to  that  religion,  as  an  indispensable  quali- 
fication for  all  civil  office.  He  distinctly  declares  that  he 
does  i?ot  in  this  proposition  confine  his  view  to  orthodox 
governments  or  even  to  Christian  governments.  The  cir- 
cumstance that  a religion  is  false  does  not,  he  tells  us,  dim- 
inish the  obligation  of  governors,  as  such,  to  uphold  it.  If 
they  neglect  to  do  so,  “ we  cannot,”  he  says,  “ but  regard 
the  fact  as  aggravating  the  case  of  the  holders  of  such  creed.” 
“ I do  not  scruple  to  affirm,”  he  adds,  “ that,  if  a Mahome- 
tan conscientiously  believes  his  religion  to  come  from  God, 
and  to  teach  divine  truth,  he  must  believe  that  truth  to  be 
beneficial,  and  beneficial  beyond  all  other  things  to  the  soul 
of  man  ; and  he  must  therefore,  and  ought  to  desire  its  ex- 
tension, and  to  use  for  its  extension  all  proper  and  legiti- 
mate means;  and  that,  if  such  Mahometan  be  a prince,  he 
ought  to  count  among  those  means  the  application  of  what- 
ever influence  or  funds  he  may  lawfully  have  at  his  disposal 
for  such  purposes.” 

Surely  this  is  a hard  saying.  Before  we  admit  that  the 
Emperor  Julian,  in  employing  the  influence  and  the  funds  at 
his  disposal  for  the  extinction  of  Christianity,  was  doing  no 
more  than  his  duty,  before  we  admit  that  the  Arian  Theodoric 
would  have  commuted  a crime  if  he  had  suffered  a single 
believer  in  the  divinity  of  Christ  to  hold  any  civil  employ- 
ment in  Italy,  before  we  admit  that  the  Dutch  Government 
is  bound  to  exclude  from  office  all  members  of  the  Church 
of  England,  the  King  of  Bavaria  to  exclude  from  office 
all  Protestants,  the  Great  Turk  to  exclude  from  office  all 
Christians,  the  King  of  Ava  to  exclude  from  office  all  who 
hold  the  unity  of  God,  we  think  ourselves  entitled  to  de- 
mand very  full  and  accurate  demonstration.  When  the 
consequences  of  a doctrine  are  so  startling,  we  may  well  re- 
quire that  its  foundations  shall  be  very  solid. 

The  following  paragraph  is  a specimen  of  the  arguments 
by  which  Mr.  Gladstone  has,  as  he  conceives,  established  his 
great  fundamental  proposition 

“ We  may  state  the  same  proposition  in  a more  general  form,  in  which  it 
eurelv  must  command  universal  assent.  Wherever  there  is  power  in  the 


344 


MACaULAy’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


universe,  that  power  is  the  property  of  God,  the  King  of  that  universe — his 
property  of  right,  however  for  a time  withholden  or  abused.  Now  this 
property  is,  as  it  were,  realized,  is  used  according  to  will  of  the  owner,  when 
it  is  used  for  the  purpose  he  has  ordained,  and  in  the  temper  of  mercy  jus- 
tice, truth,  and  fakh  which  he  has  taught  us.  But  those  principles  never 
can  be  truly,  never  can  be  permanently,  entertained  in  the  human  breast, 
except  by  a continual  reference  to  their  source,  aiid  the  supply  of  the  Divine 
grace.  The  powers,  therefore,  that  dwell  in  individuals  acting  as  a govern- 
ment, as  well  as  those  that  dwell  in  individuals  acting  for  themselves,  can 
only  be  secured  for  right  uses  by  applying  to  them  aTeligion.” 


Here  are  propositions  of  vast  and  indefinite  extent,  con- 
veyed in  language  which  has  a certain  obscure  dignity  and 
sanctity,  attractive,  we  doubt  not,  to  many  minds.  But  the 
moment  that  we  examine  these  propositions  closely,  the  mo- 
ment that  we  bring  them  to  the  test  by  running  over  but  a 
very  few  of  the  particulars  which  are  included  in  them,  we 
find  them  to  be  false  and  extravagant.  The  doctrine  which 
“ must  surely  command  universal  assent  ” is  this,  that  every 
association  of  human  beings  which  exercises  any  power 
whatever,  that  is  to  say,  every  association  of  human  beings, 
is  bound,  as  such  association,  to  profess  a religion.  Imagine 
the  effect  which  would  follow  if  this  principle  were  really 
in  force  during  four-and-twenty  hours.  Take  one  instance 
out  of  a million.  A stage-coach  company  has  power  over 
its  horses.  This  power  is  the  property  of  God.  It  is  used 
according  to  the  will  of  God  when  it  is  used  with  mercy. 
But  the  principle  of  mercy  can  never  be  truly  or  perma- 
nently entertained  in  the  human  breast  without  continual 
reference  to  God.  The  powers,  therefore,  that  dwell  in  in- 
dividuals, acting  as  a stage-coach  company,  can  only  be 
secured  for  right  uses  by  applying  to  them  a religion.  Every 
stage-coach  company  ought,  therefore,  in  its  collective  ca- 
pacity, to  profess  some  one  faith,  to  have  its  articles,  and  its 
public  worship,  and  its  tests.  That  this  conclusion,  and  an 
infinite  number  of  other  conclusions  equally  strange,  follow 
of  necessity  from  Mr.  Gladstone’s  principle,  is  as  certain  as 
it  is  that  two  and  two  make  four.  And  if  the  legitimate 
conclusions  be  so  absurd,  there  must  be  something  unsound 
in  the  principle. 

W e will  quote  another  passage  of  the  same  sort : — 

“ Why,  then,  we  now  come  to  ask,  should  the  governing  body  in  a state 
profess  a religion  ? First,  because  it  is  composed  of  individual  men ; aud 
they  being  appointed  to  act  in  a definite  moral  capacity,  must  sanctify  their 
acts  done  in  that  capacity  by  the  offices  of  religion  ; inasmuch  as  the  acts 
cannot  otherwise  be  accejrtable  to  God,  or  anything  but  sinful  and  punish- 
able in  themselves.  And  whenever  we  turn  our  face  away  from  God  in  our 
conduct,  we  are  living  atheistically.  * * * * * In  fulfilment,  then,  of  his  obli- 
gations as  an  individual,  the  statesman  must  be  a worshipping  man.  But 


GLADSTONE  ON  CHUECH  AND  STATE. 


346 


his  act?  are  public — the  powers  and  instruments  with  which  he  works  are 
public — acting  under  and  by  the  authority  of  the  law,  he  moves  at  his 
word  ten  thousand  subject  arms  ; and  because  such  energies  are  thus  essen- 
tially public  and  wholly  out  of  the  range  of  mere  individual  agency,  they 
must  be  sanctified  not  only  by  the  private  personal  prayers  and  piety  of  those 
public  situations,  but  also  by  public  acts  of  the  men  composing  the  public 
body.  They  must  offer  prayer  and  praise  in  their  public  and  collective 
character — in  that  character  wherein  they  constitute  the  organ  of  the  nation 
and  wield  its  collective  force.  Wherever  there  is  a reasoning  agency,  there 
is  a moral  duty  and  responsibility  involved  in  it.  The  governers  are  rea- 
soning agents  for  the  nation,  in  their  conjoint  acts  as  such.  And  therefore 
there  must  be  attached  to  this  agency,  as  that  without  which  none  of  our  re- 
sponsibilities can  be  met,  a religion.  And  this  religion  must  be  that  of  the 
conscience  of  the  governor,  or  none.” 

Here  again  we  find  propositions  of  vast  sweep,  and  of 
sound  so  orthodox  and  solemn  that  many  good  people,  we 
doubt  not,  have  been  greatly  edified  by  it.  But  let  us  examine 
the  words  closely;  and  it  will  immediately  become  plain 
that,  if  these  principles  be  once  admitted  there  is  an  end  of 
all  society.  No  combination  can  be  formed  for  any  pirn 
pose  of  mutual  helj),  for  trade,  for  public  works,  for  the  re- 
lief of  the  sick  or  the  poor,  for  the  promotion  of  art  oi 
science,  unless  the  members  of  the  combination  agree  in 
their  theological  opinions.  Take  any  such  combination 
at  random,  the  London  and  Birmingham  Railway  Com- 
pany for  example,  and  observe  to  what  consequences  Mr. 
Gladstone’s  arguments  inevitably  lead.  “ Why  should  the 
Directors  of  the  Railway  Company,  in  their  collective 
capacity,  profess  a religion  ? First,  because  the  direction 
is  composed  of  individual  men  appointed  to  act  in  a definite 
moral  capacity,  bound  to  look  carefully  to  the  property, 
the  limbs,  and  the  lives  of  their  fellow  creatures,  bound  ta 
act  diligently  for  their  constituents,  bound  to  govern  theii 
servants  with  humanity  and  justice,  bound  to  fulfil  with 
fidelity  many  important  contracts.  They  must,  therefore, 
sanctify  their  acts  by  the  offices  of  religion,  or  these  acts  will 
be  sinful  and  punishable  in  themselves.  In  fulfilment  then 
of  his  obligations  as  an  individual,  the  Director  of  the  Lon- 
don and  Birmingham  Railway  Company  must  be  a wor- 
shipping man.  But  his  acts  are  public.  He  acts  for  a body. 
He  moves  at  his  word  ten  thousand  subject  arms.  And  be- 
cause these  energies  are  out  of  the  range  of  his  mere  in- 
dividual agency,  they  must  be  sanctified  by  public  acts  of 
devotion.  The  Railway  Directors  must  offer  prayer  and 
praise  in  their  public  and  collective  character,  in  that  char- 
acter wherewith  they  constitute  the  organ  of  the  Company, 
and  wield  its  collected  power,  Wherever  there  is  reasoning 


846 


MACAULAY*S  MISCELLANEOUS  WAITINGS, 


agency,  there  is  moral  responsibility.  The  Directors  are 
reasoning-agents  for  the  Company.  And  therefore  there  must 
he  attached  to  this  agency,  as  that  without  which  none  of 
responsibilities  can  be  met  a religion.  And  this  religion 
must  be  that  of  the  conscience  of  the  Director  himself,  or 
none.  There  must  be  public  worship  and  a test.  No  Jew, 
no  Socinian,  no  Presbyterian,  no  Catholic,  no  Quaker,  must 
be  permitted  to  be  the  organ  of  the  Company,  and  to  wield 
its  collected  force.”  Would  Mr.  Gladstone  really  defend 
this  proposition  ? We  are  sure  that  he  would  not : but  we 
are  sure  that  to  this  proposition,  and  to  innumerable  similar 
propositions,  his  reasoning  inevitably  leads. 

Again, — 

“ National  will  and  agency  are  indisputably  one,  binding  either  a dissen- 
tient minority  or  the  subject  body,  in  a manner  that  nothing  but  the  recog- 
nition of  the  doctrine  of  national  personality  can  justify.  National  honor 
and  good  faith  are  words  in  every  one’s  mouth.  How  do  they  less  imply  a 
personality  in  nations  than  the  duty  towards  God,  for  which  we  now  con- 
tend ? They  are  strictly  and  essentially  distinct  from  the  honor  and  good 
faith  of  the  individuals  composing  the  nation.  France  is  a person  to  us, 
and  we  to  her.  A wilful  injury  done  to  her  is  a moral  act,  and  a moral  act 
quite  distinct  from  the  acts  of  all  the  individuals  composing  the  nation. 
Upon  broad  facts  like  these  we  may  rest,  without  resorting  to  the  more 
technical  proof  which  the  laws  afford  in  their  manner  of  dealing  with  cor- 
porations. If,  then,  a nation  have  unity  of  will,  have  pervading  sympa- 
thies, have  capability  of  reward  and  suffering  contingent  upon  its  acts,  shall 
we  deny  its  responsibility;  its  need  of  a religion  to  meet  that  responsibility? 
* * * A nation,  then,  having  a personality,  lies  under  the  obligation,  like 
the  individuals  composing  its  governing  body,  of  sanctifying  the  acts  of  that 
personality  by  the  offices  of  religion,  and  thus  we  have  a new  and  impera- 
tive ground  for  the  existence  of  a state  religion/’ 

A new  ground  we  have  here,  certainly,  but  whether  very 
imperative  may  be  doubted.  Is  it  not  perfectly  clear,  that 
this  argument  applies  with  exactly  as  much  force  to  every 
combination  of  human  beings  for  a common  purpose,  as  to 
governments?  Is  there  any  such  combination  in  the  world, 
whether  technically  a corporation  or  not,  which  has  not 
this  collective  personality,  from  which  Mr.  Gladstone  de- 
duces such  extraordinary  consequences  ? Look  at  banks, 
insurance  offices,  dock  companies,  canal  companies,  gas  com- 
panies, hospitals,  dispensaries,  associations  for  the  relief  of 
the  poor,  associations  for  apprehending  malefactors,  associa^ 
lions  of  medical  pupils  for  procuring  subjects,  assc  ciations 
of  country  gentlemen  for  keeping  fox-hounds,  book  socie- 
ties, benefit  societies,  clubs  of  all  ranks,  from  those  which 
have  lined  Pall-Mall  and  St.  James’s  Street  with  their  pal- 
aces, down  to  the  Free-and-easy  which  meets  in  the  shabby 
parlor  of  a village  inn,  Is  there  a single  one  of  these  combi- 


GLADSTONE  ON  CHURCH  AND  STATE. 


347 


nations  to  which  Mr.  Gladstone’s  argument  will  not  apply 
as  well  .as  to  the  State?  In  all  these  combinations,  in  the 
Bank  of  England,  for  example,  or  in  the  Athenaeum  club, 
the  will  and  agency  of  the  society  are  one,  and  bind  the 
dissentient  minority.  The  Bank  and  the  Athenaeum  have 
a good  faith  and  a justice  different  from  the  good  faith 
and  justice  of  the  individual  members.  The  Bank  is 
a person  to  those  who  deposit  bullion  with  it.  The 
Athenaeum  is  a person  to  the  butcher  and  the  wine-mer- 
chant. If  the  Athenaeum  keeps  money  at  the  Bank,  the 
two  societies  are  as  much  persons  to  “each  other  as  England 
and  France.  Either  society  may  pay  its  debts  honestly  ; 
either  may  try  to  defraud  its  creditors ; either  may  increase 
in  prosperity;  either  may  fall  into  difficulties.  If,  then,  they 
have  this  unity  of  will ; if  they  are  capable  of  doing  and 
suffering  good  and  evil,  can  wo>  to  use  Mr.  Gladstone’s 
words,  “ deny  their  responsibility,  or  their  need  of  a relig- 
ion to  meet  that  responsibility  ?”  Joint-stock  banks,  there- 
fore, and  clubs,  “ having  a personality,  lie  under  the  neces- 
sity of  sanctifying  that  personality  by  the  offices  of  religion  ; ” 
and  thus  we  have  “ a new  and  imperative  ground  ” for 
requiring  all  the  directors  and  clerks  of  joint-stock  banks, 
and  all  the  members  of  clubs,  to  qualify  by  taking  the 
sacrament. 

The  truth  is,  that  Mr.  Gladstone  has  fallen  into  an  error 
very  common  among  men  of  less  talents  than  his  own.  It 
is  not  unusual  for  a person  who  is  eager  to  prove  a particu- 
lar proposition  to  assume  a major  of  huge  extent,  which 
includes  that  particular  proposition,  without  ever  reflecting 
that  it  includes  a great  deal  more.  The  fatal  facility  with 
which  Mr.  Gladstone  multiplies  expressions  stately  and 
sonorous,  but  of  indeterminate  meaning,  eminently  qualifies 
him  to  practise  this  sleight  on  himself  and  on  his  readers. 
He  lays  down  broad  general  doctrines  about  power,  when 
the  only  power  of  which  he  is  thinking  is  the  power  of  gov- 
ernments, and  about  conjoint  actions  when  the  only  conjoint 
action  of  which  he  is  thinking  is  the  conjoint  action  of  citi- 
zens in  a state.  He  first  resolves  on  his  conclusion.  Ho 
then  makes  a major  of  most  comprehensive  dimensions,  and 
having  satisfied  himself  that  it  contains  his  conclusion, 
never  troubles  himself  about  what  else  it  may  contain  ; and 
as  soon  as  we  examine  it  we  find  that  it  contains  an  infinite 
number  of  conclusions^  every  one  of  which  is  a naonstrou# 
absurdity. 


348 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


It  is  perfectly  true  that  it  would  be  a very  good  thing  if 
all  the  members  of  all  the  associations  in  the  world  were 
men  of  sound  religious  views.  We  have  no  doubt  that  a 
good  Christian  will  be  under  the  guidance  of  Christian  prin- 
ciples, in  his  conduct  as  director  of  a canal  company  cr 
steward  of  a charity  dinner.  If  he  were,  to  recur  to  a case 
which  we  have  before  put,  a member  of  a stage-coach  com- 
pany, he  would,  in  that  capacity,  remember  that  “ a righteous 
man  regardeth  the  life  of  his  beast.”  But  it  does  not  follow 
that  every  association  of  men  must,  therefore,  as  such  associa- 
tion, profess  a religion.  It  is  evident  that  many  great  and 
useful  objects  can  be  attained  in  this  world  only  by  co- 
operation. It  is  equally  evident  that  there  cannot  be  effi- 
cient co-operation,  if  men  proceed  on  the  principle  that  they 
must  not  co-operate  for  one  object  unless  they  agree  about 
other  objects.  Nothing  seems  to  us  more  beautiful  or  ad- 
mirable in  our  social  system  than  the  facility  with  wThich 
thousands  of  people,  who  perhaps  agree  only  on  a single 
point,  can  combine  their  energies  for  the  purpose  of  carry- 
ing that  single  point.  We  see  daily  instances  of  this.  Two 
men,  one  of’ them  obstinately  prejudiced  against  missions, 
the  other  president  of  a missionary  society,  sit  together  at 
the  board  of  a hospital,  and  heartily  concur  in  measures  for 
the  health  and  comfort  of  the  patients.  Two  men,  one  of 
whom  is  a zealous  supporter  and  the  other  a zealous  oppo- 
nent of  the  system  pursued  in  Lancaster’s  schools,  meet  at 
the  Mendicity  Society,  and  act  together  with  the  utmost 
cordiality.  The  general  rule  we  take  to  be  undoubtedly 
this,  that  it  is  lawful  and  expedient  for  men  to  unite  in  an 
association  for  the  promotion  of  a good  object,  though  they 
may  differ  with  respect  to  other  obiects  of  still  higher  im- 
portance. 

It  will  hardly  be  denied  that  the  security  of  the  persons 
and  property  of  men  is  a good  object,  and  that  the  best  way, 
indeed  the  only  way  of  promoting  that  object,  is  to  combine 
men  together  in  certain  great  corporations  which  are  called 
States.  These  corporations  are  very  variously,  and,  for  the 
most  part,  very  imperfectly  organized.  Many  of  them 
abound  with  frightful  abuses.  But  it  seems  reasonable  to 
believe  that  the  worst  that  ever  existed  was,  on  the  whole* 
preferable  to  complete  anarchy. 

Now,  reasoning  from  analogy,  we  should  say  that  these 
great  corporations  would,  like  all  other  associations,  be 
Ukely  to  attain  their  end  most  perfectly  if  that  end  wer$ 


GLADSTONE  ON  CHURCH  AND  STATE. 


849 


kept  singly  in  \ iew ; and  that  to  refuse  the  services  of  those 
who  are  admirably  qualified  to  promote  that  end,  because 
they  are  not  also  qualified  to  promote  some  other  end,  how- 
ever excellent,  seems  at  first  sight  as  unreasonable  as  it 
would  be  to  provide  that  nobody  who  was  not  a fellow  of 
the  Society  of  Antiquaries  should  be  a governor  of  the  Eye 
Infirmary ; or  that  nobody  wdio  was  not  a member  of  the 
Society  for  promoting  Christianity  among  the  Jews  should 
be  a trustee  cf  the  Literary  Fund. 

It  is  impossible  to  name  any  collection  of  human  beings 
to  which  Mr.  Gladstone’s  reasoning  would  apply  more 
strongly  than  to  an  army.  Where  shall  we  find  more  com- 
plete unity  of  action  than  in  an  army  ? Where  else  do  so 
many  human  beings  implicitly  obey  one  ruling  mind  ? 
What  other  mass  is  there  which  moves  so  much  like  one  man  ? 
Where  is  such  tremendous  power  entrusted  to  those  who 
command  ? Where  is  so  awful  a responsibility  laid  upon 
them  ? If  Mr.  Gladstone  has  made  out,  as  he  conceives,  an 
imperative  necessity  for  a State  Religion,  much  more  has 
he  made  it  out  to  be  imperatively  necessary  that  every 
army  should,  in  its  collective  capacity,  profess  a religion. 
Is  he  prepared  to  ado})t  this  consequence  ? 

On  the  morning  of  the  thirteenth  of  August,  in  the 
year  1704,  two  great  captains,  equal  in  authority,  united  by 
close  private  and  public  ties,  but  of  different  creeds,  pre- 
pared for  a battle,  on  the  event  of  which  wrere  staked  the 
libertie  of  Europe.  Marlborough  had  passed  a part  of  the 
night  in  prayer,  and  before  daybreak  received  the  sacrament 
according  t the  rites  of  .the  Church  of  England.  He  then 
has  ened  to  join  Eugene,  who  had  probably  just  confessed 
himself  to  a Popish  priest.  The  generals  consulted  together, 
formed  their  plan  in  concert,  and  repaired  each  to  his  own 
post.  Marlborough  gave  orders  for  public  prayers.  The 
English  chaplains  read  the  seivice  at  the  head  of  the  Eng- 
lish regiments.  The  Calvinistic  chaplains  of  the  Dutch 
army,  with  heads  on  which  hand  of  Bishop  had  never  been 
laid,  poured  forth  their  supplications  in  front  of  their  coun- 
trymen. In  the  mean  time,  the  Danes  might  listen  to  their 
Lutheran  ministers ; and  Capuchins  might  encourage  the 
Austrian  squadrons,  and  pray  to  the  Virgin  for  a blessing 
on  the  arms  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire.  The  battle  com- 
mences. These  men  of  different  religions  all  act  like  mem- 
bers of  one  body.  The  Catholic  and  the  Protestant  general 
exert  themselves  to  assist  and  to  surpass  each  other,  Before 


850  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

sunset  the  Empire  is  saved:  France  has  lost  in  a day  the 
fruits  of  eighty  years  of  intrigue  and  of  victory ; and  the 
allies,  after  conquering  together,  return  thanks  to  God 
separately,  each  after  his  own  form  of  worship.  Now  is 
this  practical  atheism  ? AY ould  any  man  in  his  senses  say, 
that,  because  the  allied  army  had  unity  of  action  and  a 
common  interest,  and  because  a heavy  responsibility  lay  on 
its  Chiefs,  it  w~as  therefore  imperatively  necessary  that  the 
Army  should,  as  an  Army,  have  one  established  religion, 
that  Eugene  should  be  deprived  of  his  command  for  being 
a Catholic,  that  all  the  Dutch  and  Austrian  colonels  should 
be  broken  for  not  subscribing  the  Thirty-nine  Articles? 
Certainly  not.  The  most  ignorant  grenadier  on  the  field  of 
battle  would  have  seen  the  absurdity  of  such  a proposition. 
“I  know,”  he  would  have  said,  “that  the  Prince  of  Savoy 
goes  to  mass,  and  that  our  Corporal  John  cannot  abide  it; 
but  what  has  the  mass  to  do  with  the  taking  of  the  village 
of  Blenheim?  The  Prince  wants  to  beat  the  French,  and 
so  does  Corporal  John.  If  we  stand  by  each  other  we  shall 
most  likely  beat  them.  If  we  send  all  the  Papists  and 
Dutch  away,  Tallard  will  have  every  man  of  us.”  Mr. 
Gladstone  himself,  we  imagine,  would  admit  that  our  honest 
grenadier  would  have  the  best  of  the  argument ; and  if  so, 
what  follows  ? Even  this  ; that  all  Mr.  Gladstone’s  general 
principles  about  power,  and  responsibility,  and  personality, 
and  conjoint  action  must  be  given  up,  and  that,  if  his 
theory  is  to  stand  at  all,  it  must  stand  on  some  other  foun- 
dation. 

We  have  now,  we  conceive,  shown  that  it  may  be  prop- 
er to  form  men  into  combinations  for  important  purposes, 
which  combinations  shall  have  unity  and  common  interests, 
and  shall  be  under  the  direction  of  rulers  intrusted  with 
great  power  and  lying  under  solemn  responsibility,  and  yet 
that  it  may  be  highly  improper  that  these  combinations 
should,  as  such,  profess  any  one  system  of  religious  belief 
or  perform  any  joint  act  of  religious  worship.  How,  then, 
xs  it  proved  that  this  may  not  be  the  case  with  some  of  those 
great  combinations  which  we  call  States  ? We  firmly  believe 
that  it  is  the  case  with  some  States.  We  firmly  believe  that 
there  are  communities  in  which  it  would  be  as  absurd  to 
mix  up  theology  with  government,  as  it  would  have  been 
for  the  right  wing  of  the  allied  army  at  Blenheim  to  com- 
mence a controversy  with  the  left  wing,  in  the  middle  of  the 
battle*  about  purgatory  and  the  worship  of  images* 


Gladstone  otf  cmmcn  a state. 


851 


It  is  the  duty,  Mr.  Gladstone  tells  us,  of  the  persons,  be 
they  who  they  may,  who  hold  supreme  power  in  the  state, 
to  employ  that  power  in  order  to  promote  whatever  they 
may  deem  to  be  theological  truth.  How,  surely,  before  he 
can  call  on  us  to  admit  this  proposition,  he  is  bound  to 
prove  that  these  persons  are  likely  to  do  more  good  than 
harm  by  so  employing  eir  power.  The  first  question  is, 
whether  a government,  proposing  to  itself  the  propagation 
of  religious  truth  as  me  of  its  principal  ends,  is  more  likely 
to  lead  the  people  right  than  to  lead  them  wrong?  Mr. 
Gladstone  evades  this  question;  and  perhaps  it  was  his 
wisest  course  to  do  so. 

“If,”  says  he,  “the  government  be  good,  let  it  have  its  natural  duties 
and  powers  at  its  command;  but,  if  not  good,  let  it  be  made  go.  * * * 

We  follow,  therefore,  the  true  course  in  looking  first  for  the  true  idea,  or  ab- 
stract conception  of  a government,  of  course  with  allowance  for  the  evil  and 
frailty  that  are  in  man,  and  then  in  examining  whether  there  be  comprised 
in  that  idea  a capacity  and  consequent  duty  on  the  part  of  a government  to 
lay  down  any  laws,  or  devote  any  means  for  the  purposes  of  religion, — in 
short,  to  exercise  a choice  upon  religion. ’’ 

Of  course,  Mr.  Gladstone  has  a perfect  right  to  argue 
any  abstract  question,  provided  that  he  will  constantly  bear 
in  mind  that  it  is  only  an  abstract  question  that  he  is  argu- 
ing. Whether  a perfect  government  would  or  would  not  be 
a good  machinery  for  the  propagation  of  religious  truth  is 
certainly  a harmless,  and  may,  for  aught  we  know,  be  an 
edifying  subject  of  inquiry.  But  it  is  very  important  that 
we  should  remember  that  there  is  not,  and  never  has  been, 
any  such  government  in  the  world.  There  is  no  harm  at 
all  in  inquiring  what  course  a stone  thrown  into  the  air 
would  take,  if  the  law  of  gravitation  did  not  operate.  But 
the  consequences  would  be  unpleasant,  if  the  inquirer,  as 
soon  as  he  had  finished  his  calculation,  were  to  begin  to 
throw  stones  about  in  all  directions,  without  considering 
that  his  conclusion  rests  on  a false  hypothesis,  and  that  his 
projectiles,  instead  of  flying  away  through  infinite  space, 
will  speedily  return  in  parabolas,  and  break  the  windows 
and  heads  of  his  neighbors. 

It  is  very  easy  to  say  that  governments  are  good,  or  if 
not  good,  ought  to  be  made  so.  But  what  is  meant  by  good 
government?  And  how  are  all  the  bad  governments  in 
the  world  to  be  made  good  ? And  of  what  value  is  a theory 
which  is  true  only  on  a supposition  in  the  highest  degree 
extravagant  ? 

We  do  not,  however,  admit  that,  if  a government  were* 


352  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

for  all  its  temporal  ends,  as  perfect  as  human  frailty  allows, 
such  a government  would,  therefore,  be  necessarily  qualified 
to  propagate  true  religion.  For  we  see  that  the  fitness  of 
governments  to  propagate  true  religion  is  by  no  means  pro- 
portioned to  their  fitness  for  the  temporal  end  of  their  insti- 
tution. Looking  at  individuals,  we  see  that  the  princes  under 
whose  rule  nations  have  been  most  ably  protected  from  for- 
eign and  domestic  disturbance,  and  have  made  the  most 
rapid  advances  in  civilization,  have  been  by  no  means  good 
teachers  of  divinity.  Take,  for  example,  the  best  French 
sovereign,  Henry  the  Fourth,  a king  who  restored  order, 
terminated  a teurible  civil  war,  brought  the  finances  into  an 
excellent  condition,  made  his  country  respected  throughout 
Europe,  and  endeared  himself  to  the  great  body  of  the  people 
whom  he  ruled.  Yet  this  man  was  twice  a Huguenot,  and 
twice  a Papist.  He  was,  as  Davila  hints,  strongly  suspected 
of  having  no  religion  at  ah  in  theory,  and  was  certainly  not 
much  under  religious  restraints  in  his  practice.  Take  the 
Czar  Peter,  the  Empress  Catharine,  Frederic  the  Great.  It 
will  surely  not  be  disputed  that  these  sovereigns,  with  all 
their  faults,  were,  if  we  consider  them  with  reference  merely 
to  the  temporal  ends  of  government,  above  the  average  of 
merit.  Considered  as  theological  guides,  Mr.  Gladstone 
would  probably  put  them  below  the  most  abject  drivellers  of 
the  Spanish  branch  of  the  house  of  Bourbon.  Again,  when 
we  pass  from  individuals  to  systems,  we  by  no  means  find 
that  the  aptitude  of  governments  for  propagating  religious 
truth  is  proportioned  to  their  aptitude  for  secular  functions. 
Without  being  blind  admirers  either  of  the  French  or  of  the 
American  institutions,  we  think  it  clear  that  the  persons  and 
property  of  citizens  are  better  protected  in  France  and  in 
New  England  than  in  almost  any  society  that  now  exists, 
or  that  has  ever  existed ; very  much  better,  certainly,  than  in 
the  Roman  empire  under  the  orthodox  rule  of  Constantine 
and  Theodosius.  But  neither  the  government  of  France, 
nor  that  of  New  England,  is  so  organized  as  to  be  fit  for  the 
propagation  of  theological  doctrines.  Nor  do  we  think  it 
improbable  that  the  most  serious  religious  errors  might  pre- 
vail in  a state  which,  considered  merely  with  reference  to 
temporal  objects,  might  approach  far  nearer  than  any  that 
has  ever  been  known,  to  the  idea  of  what  a state  should  be. 

But  we  shall  leave  this  _abstract  question,  and  look  at 

ay  in  which 
it  at  all  prob- 


1 


GLADSTONE  ON  CHURCH  AND  STATE. 


853 


able  that  they  will  be  more  favorable  to  orthodoxy  than  to 
heterodoxy?  A nation  of  barbarians  pours  down  on  a rich  and 
un warlike  empire,  enslaves  the  people,  portions  out  the  land, 
and  blends  the  institutions  which  it  finds  in  the  cities  with 
those  which  it  has  brought  from  the  woods.  A handful  of  dar- 
ing adventurers  from  a civilized  nation  wander  to  some  savage 
country,  and  reduce  the  aboriginal  race  to  bondage.  A suc- 
cessful general  turns  his  arms  against  the  state  which  he 
serves.  A society,  made  brutal  by  oppression,  rises  madly 
on  its  masters,  sweeps  away  all  old  laws  and  usages,  and, 
when  its  first  paroxysm  of  rage  is  over,  sinks  down  passively 
under  any  form  of  polity  which  may  spring  out  of  the  chaos. 
A chief  of  a party,  as  at  Florence,  becomes  imperceptibly  a 
sovereign,  and  the  founder  of  a dynasty.  A captain  of  mer- 
cenaries, as  at  Milan,  seizes  on  a city,  and  by  the  sword 
makes  himself  its  ruler.  An  elective  senate,  as  at  Venice, 
usurps  permanent  and  hereditary  power.  It  is  in  events 
such  as  these  that  governments  have  generally  originated  ; 
and  we  can  see  nothing  in  such  events  to  warrant  us  in  be- 
lieving that  the  governments  thus  called  into  existence  will 
be  peculiarly  well  fitted  to  distinguish  between  religious 
truth  and  heresy. 

When,  again,  we  look  at  the  constitutions  of  governments 
which  have  become  settled,  we  find  no  great  security  for 
the  orthodoxy  of  rulers  One  magistrate  holds  power  because 
his  name  was  drawn  out  of  a purse  ; another,  because  his 
father  held  it  before  him.  There  are  representative  systems 
of  all  sorts,  large  constituent  bodies,  small  constituent  bodies, 
universal  suffrage,  higb  pecuniary  qualifications.  We  see 
that,  for  the  temporal  ends  of  government,  some  of  these 
constitutions  are  very  skilfully  constructed,  and  that  the  very 
worst  of  them  is  preferable  to  anarchy.  We  see  some  sort 
of  connection  between  the  very  worst  of  them  and  the  temporal 
well-being  of  society.  But  it  passes  our  understanding  to 
comprehend  what  connection  any  one  of  them  has  with  the* 
ological  truth. 

And  how  stands  the  fact?  Have  not  almost  all  the 
governments  in  the  world  always  been  in  the  wrong  on 
religious  subjects  ? Mr.  Gladstone,  we  imagine,  would  say 
that,  except  in  the  time  of  Constantine,  of  Jovian,  and  of  a 
very  few  of  their  successors,  and  occasionally  in  England 
! since  the  Reformation,  no  government  has  ever  been  sin- 
cerely friendly  to  the  pure  and  apostolical  Church  of  Christ. 
If,  therefore,  it  be  true  that  every  ruler  is  bound  in  con- 
Vol.  II,— 28 


► 


354  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

science  to  use  his  power  for  the  propagation  of  his  own  relig- 
ion, it  will  follow  that,  for  one  ruler  who  has  been  bound  in 
conscience  to  use  his  power  for  the  propagation  of  truth,  a 
thousand  have  been  bound  in  conscience  to  use  their  power 
for  the  propagation  of  falsehood.  Surely  tins  is  a conclusion 
from  which  common  sense  recoils.  Surely,  if  experience 
shows  that  a certain  machine,  whpn  used  to  produce  a 
certain  effect,  does  not  produce  that  effect  once  in  a thou- 
sand times,  but  produces,  in  the  vast  majority  of  cases,  an 
effect  directly  contrary,  we  cannot  be  wrong  in  saying  that 
it  is  not  a machine  of  which  the  principal  end  is  to  be  so  used. 

If,  indeed,  the  magistrate  would  content  himself  with 
laying  his  opinions  and  reasons  before  the  people,  and  would 
leave  theqieople,  uncorrupted  by  hope  or  fear,  to  judge  for 
themselves,  we  should  see  little  reason  to  apprehend  that 
his  interference  in  favor  of  error  would  be  seriously  preju- 
dicial to  the  interests  of  truth.  Nor  do  we,  as  will  hereafter 
be  seen,  object  to  his  taking  this  course,  when  it  is  compat- 
ible with  the  efficient  discharge  of  his  more  especial  duties. 

But  this  will  not  satisfy  Mr.  Gladstone.  lie  would  have  the 
magistrate  resort  to  means  which  have  a great  tendency  to 
make  malcontents,  to  make  hypocrites  to  make  careless 
nominal  conformists,  but  no  tendency  whatever  to  produce 
honest  and  rational  conviction.  It  seems  to  us  quite  clear 
that  an  inquirer  who  has  no  wish  except  to  know  the  truth 
is  more  likely  to  arrive  at  the  truth  than  an  inquirer  who 
knows  that,  if  he  decides  one  way,  he  shall  be  rewarded, 
and  that,  if  he  decides  the  other  way,  he  shall  be  punished. 
Now,  Mr.  Gladstone  would  have  governments  propagate 
their  opinions  by  excluding  all  dissenters  from  all  civil  office.  $ : 
That  is  to  say,  he  would  have  governments  propagate  their 
opinions  by  a process  which  lias  no  reference  whatever  to 
the  truth  or  falsehood  of  those  opinions,  by  arbitrarily  uni- 
ting certain  worldly  advantages  with  one  set  of  doctrines, 
and  certain  worldly  inconveniences  with  another  set.  It 
is  of  the  very  nature  of  argument  to  serve  the  interests  of 
truth ; but  if  rewards  and  punishments  serve  the  interests 
of  truth,  it  is  by  mere  accident.  It  is  very  much  easier  to 
find  arguments  for  the  divine  authority  of  the  Gospel  than 
for  the  divine  authority  of  the  Koran.  But  it  is  just  as  easy 
to  bribe  or  rack  a Jew  into  Mahometanism  as  into  Chris- 
tianity. 

From  racks,  indeed,  and  from  all  penalties  directed 
against  the  persons  the  property,  and  the  liberty  of  heretics^ 


GLAD  STOKE  OK  CHURCH  AKD  STATE.  355 

the  humane  spirit  of  Mr.  Gladstone  shrinks- with  horror.  He 
only  maintains  that  conformity  to  the  religion  of  the  state 
ought  to  be  an  indispensable  qualification  for  office  ; and  he 
would,  unless  we  have  greatly  misunderstood  him,  think  it 
his  duty,  if  he  had  the  power,  to  revive  the  Test  Act,  to 
enforce  it  rigorously,  and  to  extend  it  to  important  classes 
who  were  formerly  exempt  from  its  operation. 

This  is  indeed  a legitimate  consequence  of  his  principles. 
But  why  stop  here  ? Why  noto  oast  dissenters  at  slow  fires  ? 
All  the  general  reasonings  on  which  this  theory  rests  evi- 
dently lead  to  sanguinary  persecution.  If  the  propagation  of 
religious  truth  be  a principal  end  of  government,  as  govern- 
ment ; if  it  be  the  duty  of  a government  to  employ  for  that 
end  its  constitutional  power  ; if  the  constitutional  power  of 
governments  extends,  as  it  most  unquestionably  does,  to  the 
making  of  laws  for  the  burning  of  heretics  ; if  burning  be, 
as  it  most  assuredly  is,  in  many  cases,  a most  effectual  mode 
of  suppressing  opinions  ; wrhy  should  wre  not  burn  ? If  the 
relation  in  which  government  ought  to  stand  to  the  people 
be,  as  Mr.  Gladstone  tells  us,  a paternal  relation,  wre  are  irresis- 
tibly led  to  the  conclusion  that  persecution  is  justifiable.  For 
the  right  of  propagating  opinions  by  punishment  is  one  which 
belongs  to  parents  as  clearly  as  the  right  to  give  instruction. 
A boy  is  compelled  to  attend  family  worship  : he  is  forbidden 
to  read  irreligious  books  : if  he  w ill  not  learn  his  catechism, 
he  is  sent  to  bed  without  his  supper : if  he  plays  truant  at 
church-time  a task  is  set  him.  If  he  should  display  the 
precocity  of  his  talents  by  expressing  impious  opinions  be- 
fore his  brothers  and  sisters,  wre  should  not  much  blame  his 
father  for  cutting  short  the  controversy  with  a horse-wliip. 
All  the  reasons  w hich  lead  us  to  think  that  parents  are  pe- 
culiarly fitted  to  conduct  the  education  of  their  children,  and 
that  education  is  a princpal  end  of  the  parental  relation,  lead 
us  also  to  think  that  parents  ought  to  be  allowed  to  uso 
punishment,  if  necessary,  for  the  purpose  of  forcing  children, 
who  are  incapable  of  judging  for  themselves,  to  receive  re- 
ligious instruction  and  to  attend  religious  worship.  Why, 
then,  is  this  prerogative  of  punishment,  so  eminently  pater- 
nal, to  be  withheld  from  a paternal  government  ? It  seems 
to  us,  also,  to  be  the  height  of  absurdity  to  employ  civil  dis- 
abilities for  the  propagation  of  an  opinion,  and  then  to  shrink 
from  employing  other  punishments  for  the  same  purpose. 
For  nothing  can  be  clearer  than  that,,  if  you  punish  at  all, 
you  ought  to  punish  enough,  The  pain  caused  by  punish- 


356 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


ment  is  pure  unmixed  evil,  and  never  ought  to  be  inflicted, 
except  for  the  sake  of  some  good.  It  is  mere  foolish  cruelty 
to  provide  penalties  which  torment  the  criminal  without 
preventing  the  crime.  Now  it  is  possible,  by  sanguinary 
persecution  unrelentingly  inflicted,  to  suppress  opinions.  In 
this  wTay  the  Albigenses  were  put  down.  In  this  w^ay  the 
Lollards  were  put  down.  In  this  way  the  fair  promise  of 
the  Reformation  was  blighted  in  Italy  and  Spain.  But  we 
may  safely  defy  Mr.  Gladstone  to  point  out  a single  instance 
in  which  the  system  w^hich  lie  recommends  has  succeeded. 

And  why  should  he  be  so  tender-hearted  ? What  reason 
can  he  give  for  hanging  a murderer,  and  suffering  an  here- 
siarch  to  escape  without  even  a pecuniary  mulct  ? Is  the 
heresiarch  a less  pernicious  member  of  society  than  the 
murderer  ? Is  not  the  loss  of  one  soul  a greater  evil  than  the 
extinction  of  many  lives?  And  the  number  of  murders 
committed  by  the  most  profligate  bravo  that  ever  let  out  his 
poniard  to  hire  in  Italy,  or  by  the  most  savage  buccaneer 
that  ever  prowled  on  the  Windward  Station,  is  small  indeed, 
when  compared  with  the  number  of  souls  which  have  been 
caught  in  the  snares  of  one  dexterous  heresiarch.  If,  then,  the 
heresiarch  causes  infinitely  greater  evils  than  the  murderer, 
why  is  he  not  as  proper  an  object  of  penal  legislation  as  the 
murderer?  We  can  give  a reason,  a reason,  short,  simple, 
decisive,  and  consistent.  W e do  not  extenuate  the  evil  which 
the  heresiarch  produces  : but  we  say  that  it  is  not  evil  of 
that  sort  against  which  it  is  the  end  of  government  to  guard. 
But  howr  Mr.  Gladstone,  wTho  considers  the  evil  which  the 
heresiarch  produces  as  evil  of  the  sort  against  which  it  is  the 
end  of  government  to  guard,  can  escape  from  the  obvious 
consequence  of  his  doctrine,  we  do  not  understand.  The 
world  is  full  of  parallel  cases.  An  orange-woman  stops  up 
the  pavement  with  her  wheelbarrow  ; and  a policeman  takes 
her  into  custody.  A miser  who  has  amassed  a million  suf- 
fers an  old  friend  and  benefactor  to  die  in  a workhouse,  and 
cannot  be  questioned  before  any  tribunal  for  his  baseness 
and  ingratitude.  Is  this  because  legislators  think  the  orange- 
woman’s  conduct  worse  than  the  miser’s  ? Not  at  all.  It  is 
because  the  stopping  up  of  the  pathway  is  one  of  the  evils 
against  which  it  is  the  business  of  the  public  authorities  to 
protect  society,  and  heartlessness  is  not  one  of  those  evils. 
It  would  be  the  height  of  follv  to  say  that  the  miser  ought, 
indeed,  to  be  punished,  but  tnat  he  ought  to  be  punished 
less  severely  than  the  orange-woman, 


GLADSTONE  ON  CHURCH  AND  STATE. 


357 


The  heretical  Constantins  persecutes  Athanasius ; and 
why  not  ? Shall  Caesar  punish  the  robber  who  has  taken 
one*  purse,  and  spare  the  wretch  who  has  taught  millions  to 
rob  the  Creator  of  His  honor,  and  to  bestow  it  on  the  crea- 
ture? The  orthodox  Theodosius  persecutes  theArians,  and 
with  equal  reason.  Shall  an  insult  offered  to  the  Caesarean 
majesty  be  expiated  by  death ; and  shall  there  be  no  penalty 
for  him  who  degrades  to  the  rank  of  a creature  the  al- 
mighty, the  infinite  Creator?  We  have  a short  answer  for 
both  : To  Caesar  the  things  which  are  Caesar’s.  Caesar  is  ap- 
pointed for  the  punishment  of  robbers  and  rebels.  He  is  not 
appointed  for  the  purpose  of  either  propagating  or  exter- 
minating the  doctrine  of  the  consubstantiality  of  the  Father 
and  the  Son.”  “Not  so,”  says  Mr.  Gladstone.  “Caesar 
is  bound  in  conscience  to  propagate  whatever  he  thinks  to 
be  the  truth  as  to  this  question.  Constantius  is  bound  to  es- 
tablish the  Arian  worship  throughout  the  empire,  and  to 
displace  the  bravest  captains  of  his  legions,  and  the  ablest 
ministers  of  his  treasury,  if  they  hold  the  Nicene  faith. 
Theodosius  is  equally  bound  to  turn  out  every  public  servant 
whom  his  Arian  predecessors  have  put  in.  But  if  Constan- 
tius lays  on  Athanasius  a fine  of  a single  aureusy  if  Theodo- 
sius imprisons  an  Arian  presbyter  for  a week,  this  is  most 
unjustifiable  oppression.”  Our  readers  will  be  curious  to 
know  how  this  distinction  is  made  out. 

The  reasons  which  Mr.  Gladstone  gives  against  persecu- 
tion affecting  life,  limb,  and  property,  may  be  divided  into 
two  classes  ; first,  reasons,  which  can  be  called  reasons  only 
by  extreme  courtesy,  and  which  nothing  but  the  most  de- 
plorable necessity  would  ever  have  induced  a man  of  his 
abilities  to  use ; and,  secondly,  reasons  which  are  really 
reasons,  and  which  have  so  much  force  that  they  not  only 
completely  prove  his  exception,  but  completely  upset  his 
general  rule.  His  artillery  on  this  occasion  is  composed  of 
two  sorts  of  pieces,  pieces  which  will  not  go  off  at  all,  and 
pieces  which  go  off  with  a vengeance,  and  recoil  with  most 
crushing  effect  upon  himself. 

“We,  as  fallible  creatures,”  says  Mr.  Gladstone,  “have  no  right,  from 
any  bare  speculations  of  our  own,  to  administer  pains  and  penalties  to  our 
fellow-creatures,  whether  on  social  or  religions  grounds.  We  have  the  right 
to  enforce  the  laws  of  the  land  by  such  pains  and  penalties,  because  it  is 
expressly  given  by  Him  who  has  declared  that  the  civil  rulers  are  to  bear 
the  sword  for  the  punishment  of  evil-doers,  and  for  the  encouragement  of 
them  that  do  well.  And  so,  in  things  spiritual,  had  it  pleased  God  to  give 
to  the  Church  or  the  State  this  power,  to  be  permanently  exercised  over 
their  members,  or  mankind  at  large,  we  should  have  the  right  to  use  jt ; 


858 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  whitings. 


but  it  does  not  appear  to  have  been  so  received,  and  consequently,  it  should 
not  be  exercised.” 

We  should  be  sorry  to  think  that  the  security  of  our 
lives  and  property  from  persecution  rested  on  no  better 
ground  than  this.  Is  not  a teacher  of  heresy  an  evil-doer  ? 
Has  not  heresy  been  condemned  in  many  countries,  and  in 
our  own  among  them,  by  the  laws  of  the  land,  which,  as 
Mr.  Gladstone  says,  it  is  justifiable  to  enforce  by  penal  sanc- 
tions? If  a heretic  is  not  specially  mentioned  in  the  text 
to  which  Mr.  Gladstone  refers,  neither  is  an  assassin,  a kid- 
napper, or  a highwayman  : and  if  the  silence  of  the  New 
Testament  as  to  all  interference  of  governments  to  stop 
the  progress  of  heresy  be  a reason  for  not  fining  or  impris- 
oning heretics,  it  is  surely  just  as  good  a reason  for  not  ex- 
cluding them  from  office. 

“ God,”  says  Mr.  Gladstone,  “ has  seen  fit  to  authorize  the  employment 
Deforce  in  the  one  case  and  not  in  the  other  ; for  it  was  with  regard  to  chas- 
tisement inflicted  by  the  sword  for  an  insult  offered  to  himself  that  the  Re- 
deemer declared  his  kingdom  not  to  be  of  this  world  ; meaning,  apparently 
in  an  especial  manner,  that  it  should  be  otherwise  than  after  this  world*? 
fashion,  in  respect  to  the  sanctions  by  which  its  laws  should  be  main- 
tained.” 

Now  here  Mr.  Gladstone,  quoting  from  memory,  has 
fallen  into  an  error.  The  very  remarkable  words  which  he 
cites  do  not  appear  to  have  had  any  reference  to  the  wound 
inflicted  by  Peter  on  Malchus.  They  were  addressed  to 
Pilate,  in  answer  to  the  question,  “ Art  thou  the  King  of 
the  Jews?”  We  cannot  help  saying  that  we  are  surprised 
that  Mr.  Gladstone  should,  not  have  more  accurately  veri- 
fied a quotation  on  which  according  to  him,  principally  de- 
pends the  right  of  a hundred  millions  of  his  fellow-subjects, 
idolaters,  Mussulmans,  Catholics,  and  dissenters,  to  their 
property,  their  liberty,  and  their  lives. 

Mr.  Gladstone’s  humane  interpretations  of  Scripture  are 
lamentably  destitute  of  one  recommendation,  which  he  con- 
siders as  of  the  highest  value  : they  are  by  no  means  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  general  precepts  or  practice  of  the 
Church,  from  the  time  when  the  Christians  became  strong 
enough  to  persecute  down  to  a very  recent  period.  A dog- 
ma favorable  to  toleration  is  certainly  not  a dogma  quod 
semper,  quod  ubique , quod  omnibus . Bossuet  was  able  to 
say,  we  fear  with  too  much  truth,  that  on  one  point  all 
Christians  had  long  been  unanimous,  the  right  of  the  civil 
magistrate  to  propagate  truth  by  the  sword ; that  even 
aeretics  had  been  orthodox  as  to  this  right*  and  that  the 


GLADSTONE  ON  CIITJIlCil  AND  STATE. 


359 


Anabaptists  and  Socinians  were  the  first  who  called  it  in 
question.  We  will  not  pretend  to  say  what  is  the  best  ex- 
planation of  the  text  under  consideration ; but  we  are  sure 
that  Mr.  Gladstone’s  is  the  worst.  According  to  him,  gov- 
ernment ought  to  exclude  dissenters  from  office,  but  not  to 
fine  them,  because  Christ’s  kingdom  is  not  of  this  world 
We  do  not  see  why  the  line  may  not  be  drawn  at  a hundred 
other  places  as  well  as  that  which  he  has  chosen.  We  do 
not  see  why  Lord  Clarendon,  in  recommending  the  act  of 
1664  against  conventicles,  might  hot  have  said,  “ It  hath 
been  thought  by  some  that  this  classis  of  men  might  with 
advantage  be  not  only  imprisoned  but  pilloried.  But  me- 
thinks,  my  Lords,  we  are  inhibited  from  the  punishment  of 
the  pillory  by  that  Scripture,  c My  kingdom  is  not  of  this 
world.’  ” Archbishop  Ladd,  when  he  sate  on  Burton  in  the 
Star-Chamber,  might  have  said,  “ I pronounce  for  the  pil- 
lory ; and,  indeed,  I could  wish  that  all  such  wretches  were 
delivered  to  the  fire,  but  that  our  Lord  hath  said  that  his 
kingdom  is  not  of  this  world.”  And  Gardiner  might  have 
written  to  the  Sheriff  of  Oxfordshire:  “Sec  that  execution 
be  done  without  fail  on  Master  Ridley  and  Master  Latimer, 
as  you  will  answer  the  same  to  the  Queen’s  grace  at  your 
peril.  But  if  they  shall  desire  to  have  some  gunpowder  for 
the  shortening  of  their  torment,  I see  not  but  you  may  grant 
it,  as  it  is  written,  Hegnum  meum  non  est  de  hoc  mundo  ; 
that  is  to  say,  My  kingdom  is  not  of  this  world.” 

But  Mr.  Gladstone  has  other  arguments  against  persecu- 
tion, arguments  which  are  of  so  much  weight,  that  they  are 
decisive  not  only  against  persecution  but  against  his  whole 
theory.  “ The  government,”  he  says,  “ is  incompetent  to 
exercise  minute  and  constant  supervision  over  religious 
opinion.”  And  hence  he  infers,  that  “ a government  ex- 
ceeds its  province  when  it  comes  to  adapt  a scale  of  punish- 
ments to  variations  in  religious  opinion,  according  to  their 
-respective  degrees  of  variation  from  the  established  creed. 
To  decline  affording  countenance  to  sects  is  a single  and 
simple  rule.  To  punish  their  professors,  according  to  their 
several  errors,  even  were  there  no  other  objection  is  one  for 
which  the  state  must  assume  functions  wholly  ecclesiastical, 
and  for  which  it  is  not  intrinsically  fitted.” 

This  is,  in  our  opinion,  quite  true.  But  how  does  it 
agree  with  Mr.  Gladstone’s  theory  ? What ! the  govern- 
ment incompetent  to  exercise  even  such  a degree  of  super- 
vision over  religious  opinion  as  is  implied  by  the  punish- 


360  MACAULAY* S MISCELLANEOUS  W UITtSTUS . 

ment  of  the  most  deadly  lieresy ! The  government  incom- 
petent to  measure  even  the  grossest  deviations  from  the 
standard  of  truth ! The  government  not  intrinsically  quali- 
fied to  judge  of  the  .comparative  enormity  of  any  theo- 
logical errors  ! The  government  so  ignorant  on  these  sub- 
jects, that  it  is  compelled  to  leave,  not  merely  subtle  heresies, 
discernible  only  by  the  eye  of  a Cyril  or  a Bucer,  but  So- 
ciniamsm,  Deism,  Mahometanism,  Idolatry,  Atheism,  un- 
punished ! To  whom  does  Mr.  Gladstone  assign  the  office 
of  selecting  a religion  for  the  state,  from  among  hundreds 
of  religions,  every  one  of  which  lays  claim  to  truth  ? Even 
to  this  same  government,  which  is  now  pronounced  to  be 
so  unfit  for  theological  investigations  that  it  cannot  venture 
to  punish  a man  for  worshipping  a lump  of  stone  with  a 
score  of  heads  and  hands.  We  do  not  remember  ever  to 
have  fallen  in  with  a more  extraordinary  instance  of  incon- 
sistency. When  Mr.  Gladstone  wishes  to  prove  that  the 
government  ought  to  establish  and  endow  a religion,  and  to 
fence  it  with  a Test  Act,  government  is  to  xav  in  the  moral 
world.  Those  who  would  confine  it  to  secular  ends  take  a 
low  view  of  its  nature.  A religion  must  be  attached  to  its 
agency ; and  this  religion  must  be  that  of  the  conscience  of 
the  governor,  or  none.  It  is  for  the  Governor  to  decide  be- 
tween Papists  and  Protestants,  Jansenists  and  Molinists, 
Arminians  and  Calvinists,  Episcopalians  and  Presbyterians, 
Sabellians  and  Tritheists,  Homoousians  and  Homoiousians, 
Nestorians  and  Eutychians,  Monothelites  and  Monophysites, 
Paidobaptists  and  Anabaptists.  It  is  for  him  to  rejudge  the 
Acts  of  Nice  and  Rimini,  of  Ephesus  and  Chalcedon,  of 
Constantinople  and  St.  John  Lateran,  of  Trent  and  Dort. 
It  is  for  him  to  arbitrate  between  the  Greek  and  the  Latin 
procession,  and  to  determine  whether  that  mysterious 
filioque  shall  or  shall  not  have  a place  in  the  national  creed. 
When  he  has  made  up  his  mind,  lie  is  to  tax  the  whole  com- 
munity in  order  to  pay  people  to  teach  his  opinion,  what- 
ever it  may  be.  lie  is  to  rely  on  his  own  judgment, 
though  it  may  be  opposed  to  that  of  nine-tenths  of  the 
society,  He  is  to  act  on  his  own  judgment  at  the  risk 
of  exciting  the  most  formidable  discontents.  He  is  to  in- 
flict, perhaps  on  a great  majority  of  the  jmpulation,  what, 
whether  we  choose  to  call  it  persecution  or  not,  will  always 
be  felt  as  persecution  by  those  who  suffer  it.  He  is,  on  ac- 
count of  differences  often  too  slight  for  vulgar  comprehen- 
sion, to  deprive  the  state  of  the  ablest  meu,  He  is  to  de- 


GLADSTONE  ON  Oil U EC II  AND  wTATE. 


361 


base  and  enfeeble  the  community  which  he  governs,  from  a 
nation  into  a sect.  In  our  own  country,  for  example,  mil- 
lions of  Catholics,  millions  of  Protestant  Dissenters,  are  to 
be  excluded  from  ail  power  and  honors.  A great  hostile 
fleet  is  on  the  sea ; but  Nelson  is  not  to  command  in  the 
Channel  if  in  the  mystery  of  the  Trinity  he  confounds  the 
persons.  An  invading  army  has  landed  in  Kent ; but  the 
Duke  of  Wellington  is  not  to  be  at  the  head  of  our  forces  if 
he  divides  the  substance.  And  after  all  this,  Mr.  Gladstone 
tells  us,  that  it  would  be  wrong  to  imprison  a J ew,  a Mus- 
sulman, or  a Budhist,  for  a day ; because  really  a govern- 
ment cannot  understand  these  matters,  and  ought  not  to 
meddle  with  questions  which  belong  to  the  Church.  A 
singular  theologian,  indeed,  this  government ! So  learned 
that  it  is  competent  to  exclude  Grotius  from  office  for  being 
a Semi-Pelagian,  so  unlearned  that  it  is  incompetent  to  fine 
a Hindoo  peasant  a rupee  for  going  on  a pilgrimage  to 
J uggernaut. 

u To  solicit  and  persuade  one  another,”  says  Mr.  Gladstone,  “are  priv- 
ileges which  belong  to  us  all;  and  the  wiser  and  better  man  is  bound  to  ad- 
vise the  less  wise  and  good : but  he  is  not  only  not  bound,  he  is  not  allowed, 
speaking  generally,  to  coerce  him.  It  is  untrue,  then,  that  the  same  con- 
siderations which  bind  a government  to  submit  a religion  to  the  free  choice 
of  the  people  would  therefore  justify  their  enforcing  its  adoption.” 

Granted.  But  it  is  true  that  all  the  same  considerations 
wdiich  would  justify  a government  in  propagating  a religion 
by  means  of  civil  disabilities  would  justify  the  propagating 
of  that  religion  by  penal  laws.  To  solicit ! Is  it  solicita- 
tion to  tell  a Catholic  Duke,  that  he  must  abjure  his  religion 
or  walk  out  of  the  House  of  Lords  ? To  persuade ! Is  it 
persuasion  to  tell  a barrister  of  distinguished  eloquence  and 
learning  that  he  shall  grow  old  in  the  stuff  gown,  while  his 
pupils  are  seated  above  him  in  ermine,  because  he  cannot 
digest  the  damnatory  clauses  of  the  Athanasian  creed  ? 
Would  Mr.  Gladstone  think  that  a religious  system  which 
he  considers  as  false,  Socinian  for  example,  was  submitted 
to  Lis  free  choice,  if  it  were  submitted  in  these  terms? — “ If 
you  obstinately  adhere  to  the  faith  of  the  Nicene  fathers, 
you  shall  not  be  burned  in  Smithfield  ; you  shall  not  be  sent 
to  Dorchester  gaol ; you  shall  not  even  pay  double  land-tax. 
But  you  shall  be  shut  out  from  all  situations  in  which  you 
might  exercise  your  talents  with  honor  to  yourself  and  ad- 
vantage to  the  country.  The  House  of  Commons,  the  bench 
pf  magistracy,  are  not  for  such  as  you.  You  shall  sep 


362 


MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


younger  men,  your  inferiors  in  station  and  talents,  rise  to 
the  highest  dignities  and  attract  the  gaze  of  nations  while 
you  are  doomed  to  neglect  and  obscurity.  If  you  have 
a son  of  the  highest  promise,  a son  such  as  other  fathers 
would  contemplate  with  delight,  the  development  of  his 
fine  talents  and  of  his  generous  ambition  shall  be  a tor- 
ture to  you.  You  shall  look  on  him  as  a being  doomed  to 
lead,  as  you  have  led,  the  abject  life  of  a Roman  or  a Nea- 
politan in  the  midst  of  the  great  English  people.  All  those 
high  honors,  so  much  more  precious  than  the  most  costly 
gifts  of  despots,  with  which  a free  country  decorates  its  il- 
lustrious citizens,  shall  be  to  him,  as  they  have  been  to  you, 
objects  not  of  hope  and  virtuous  emulation,  but  of  hopeless, 
envious  pining.  Educate  him,  if  you  wish  to  feel  his  deg- 
radation. Educate  him,  if  you  wish  to  stimulate  his  craving 
for  what  he  never  must  enjoy.  Educate  him,  if  you  would 
imitate  the  barbarity  of  that  Celtic  tyrant,  who  fed  his 
prisoners  on  salted  food  till  they  called  eagerly  for  drink, 
and  then  let  down  an  empty  cup  into  the  dungeon,  and  left 
them  to  die  of  thirst.”  Is  this  to  solicit,  to  persuade,  to 
submit  religion  to  the  free  choice  of  man  ? Would  a fine  of 
a thousand  pounds,  would  imprisonment  in  Newgate  for  six 
months,  under  circumstances  not  disgraceful,  give  Mr.  Glad- 
stone the  pain  which  he  would  feel,  if  he  w^ere  to  be  told 
that  he  was  to  be  dealt  with  in  the  way  in  which  he  would 
himself  deal  with  more  than  one  half  of  his  countrymen  ? 

We  are  not  at  all  surprised  to  find  such  inconsistency 
even  in  a man  of  Mr.  Gladstone’s  talents.  The  truth  is, 
that  every  man  is,  to  a great  extent,  the  creature  of  the 
age.  It  is  to  no  purpose  that  he  resists  the  influence  which 
the  vast  mass,  in  which  he  is  but  an  atom,  must  exercise  on 
him.  He  may  try  to  be  a man  of  the  tenth  century  ; but  he 
cannot.  Whether  he  will  or  not,  he  must  be  a man  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  He  shares  in  the  motion  of  the  moral  as 
well  as  in  that  of  the  physical  world.  He  can  no  more  be 
as  intolerant  as  he  would  have  been  in  the  days  of  the  Tu- 
dors than  he  can  stand  in  the  evening  exactly  where  he 
stood  in  the  morning.  The  globe  goes  round  from  west  to 
east;  and  he  must  go  round  wTith  it.  When  he  says  that 
he  is  where  he  was,  he  means  only  that  he  has  moved  at  the 
same  rate  with  all  around  him.  When  he  says  that  he  lias 
gone  a good  way  to  the  westwaid,  he  means  only  that  he 
has  not  gone  to  the  eastward  quite  as  rapidly  as  his  neigh- 
bors. Mr.  Gladstone’s  book  is,  in  this  respect,  a very  grati- 


GiAftSTONK  OH  OH tj licit  AW  j&t-iWU  S63 

tying  performance*  It  is  the  measure  of  what  a man  can 
do  to  be  left  behind  by  the  world.  It  is  the  strenuous  effort 
of  a very  vigorous  mind  to  keep  as  far  in  the  rear  of  the 
general  progress  as  possible.  And  yet,  with  the  most  in- 
tense exertion,  Mr.  Gladstone  cannot  help  being,  on  some 
important  points,  greatly  in  advance  of  Locke  himself ; and 
with  whatever  admiration  he  may  regard  Laud,  it  is  well  for 
him,  we  can  tell  him,  that  he  did  not  write  in  the  days  of 
that  zealous  primate,  who  would  certainly  have  refuted  the 
expositions  of  Scripture  which  wc  have  quoted,  by  one  of 
the  keenest  arguments  that  can  be  addressed  to  human  ears. 

This  is  not  the  only  instance  in  which  Mr.  Gladstone 
has  shrunk  in  a very  remarkable  manner  from  the  conse- 
quences of  his  own  theory.  If  there  be  in  the  whole  world 
a state  to  which  this  theory  is  applicable,  that  state  is 
the  British  Empire  in  India.  Even  we,  who  detest  paternal 
governments  in  general,  shall  admit  that  the  duties  of  the 
government  of  India,  are,  to  a considerable  extent,  paternal. 
There,  the  superiority  of  the  governors  to  the  governed  in 
moral  science  :s  unquestionable.  The  conversion  of  the 
whole  people  to  the  worst  form  that  Christianity  ever  wore 
in  the  darkest  ages  would  be  a most  happy  event.  It  is  not 
necessary  that  a man  should  be  a Christian  to  wish  for  the 
propagation  of  Christianity  in  India.  It  is  sufficient  that 
he  should  be  an  European  not  much  below  the  ordinary 
European  level  of  good  sense  and  humanity.  Compared 
with  the  importance  of  the  interests  at  stake,  all  those 
Scotch  and  Irish  questions  which  occwpy  so  large  a portion 
of  Mr.  Gladstone’s  book,  sink  into  insignificance.  In  no 
part  of  the  world  since  the  days  of  Theodosius  has  so  large 
a heathen  population  been  subject  to  a Christian  govern- 
ment. In  no  part  of  the  world  is  heathenism  more  cruel, 
more  licentious,  more  fruitful  of  absurd  rites  and  pernicious 
laws.  Surely,  if  it  be  the  duty  of  government  to  use  its  power 
and  its  revenue  in  order  to  bring  seven  millions  of  Irish  Cath- 
olics over  to  the  Protestant  Church,  it  is  a fortiori  the  duty 
of  the  government  to  use  its  power  and  its  revenue  in  order 
to  make  seventy  millions  of  idolaters  Christians.  If  it  be  a sin 
to  suffer  John  Howard  or  William  Penn  to  bold  any  office 
in  England  because  they  are  not  in  communion  with  the 
Established  Church,  it  must  be  a crying  sin  indeed  to  admit 
to.  high  situations  men  who  bow  down,  in  temples  covered 
with  emblems  of  vice,  to  the  hideous  images  of  sensual  or 
malevolent  gods. 


864 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


But  no.  Orthodoxy,  it  seems,  is  more  shocked  by  tne 
priests  of  Rome  than  by  the  priests  of  Kalee.  The  plain 
red  brick  building,  the  Cave  of  Adullam,  or  Ebenezer 
Chapel,  where  uneducated  men  hear  a half-educated  man 
talk  of  the  Christian  law  of  love  and  the  Christian  hope  of 
glory,  is  unworthy  of  the  indulgence  which  is  reserved  for 
the  shrine  where  the  Thug  suspends  a portion  of  the  spoils 
of  murdered  travellers,  and  for  the  car  which  grinds  its  way 
through  the  bones  of  self-immolated  pilgrims.  “ It  would 
be,”  says  Mr.  Gladstone,  “ an  absurd  exaggeration  to  main- 
tain it  as  the  part  of  such  a government  as  that  of  the  British 
in  India  to  bring  home  to  the  door  of  every  subject  at  once 
the  ministrations  of  a new  and  totally  unknown  religion.” 
The  government  ought  indeed  to  desire  to  propagate  Chris- 
tianity. But  the  extent  to  which  they  must  do  so  must  be 
“ limited  by  the  degree  in  which  the  people  are  found  will- 
ing to  receive  it.”  He  proposes  no  such  limitation  in  the 
case  of  Ireland.  lie  would  give  the  Irish  a Protestant 
Church  whether  they  like  it  or  not.  “ We  believe,”  says  he, 
“ that  that  which  we  place  before  them  is,  whether  they 
know  it  or  not,  calculated  to  be  beneficial  to  them  ; and  that, 
if  they  know  it  not  now,  they  will  know  it  when  it  is  pre- 
sented to  them  fairly.  Shall  we,  then,  purchase  their  ap- 
plause at  the  expense  of  their  substantial,  nay,  their  spiritual 
interests  ? ” 

And  why  does  Mr.  Gladstone  allow  to  the  Hindoo  a priv- 
ilege which  he  denies  to  the  Irishman?  Why  does  he 
reserve  his  greatest  liberality  for  the  most  monstrous  errors  ? 
Why  does  he  pay  most  respect  to  the  opinion  of  the  least 
enlightened  people  ? Why  does  he  withhold  the  right  to 
exercise  paternal  authority  from  that  one  government 
which  is  fitter  to  exercise  paternal  authority  than  any  gov- 
ernment that  ever  existed  in  the  world  ? We  will  give  the 
reason  in  his  own  words. 


i 


“ In  British  India,”  he  says,  “ a small  number  of  persons  advanced  to  a 
higher  grade  of  civilization,  exercise  the  powers  of  government  over  an 
immensely  greater  number  of  less  cultivated  persons,  not  by  coercion,  but 
under  free  stipulation  with  the  governed.  Now,  the  rights  of  a government, 
in  circumstances  thus  peculiar,  obviously  depend  neither  upon  the  unre- 
stricted theory  of  paternal  principles,  nor  upon  any  primordial  or  fictitious 
contract  of  indefinite  powers,  but  upon  an  express  and  known  treaty,  matter 
of  positive  agreement,  not  of  natural  ordinance.” 

Where  Mr.  Gladstone  has  seen  this  treaty  we  cannot 
guess ; for,  though  he  calls  it  a “ known  treaty,”  we  will 
stake  our  credit  that  it  is  quite  unknown  both  at  Calcutta 


GLADSTONE  ON  CHURCH  AND  STATE. 


365 


and  Madras,  both  in  Leadenhall  Street  and  Cannon  Row, 
that  it  is  not  to  be  found  in  any  of  the  enormous  folios  of 
papers  relating  to  India  which  fill  the  book-cases  of  mem- 
bers of  Parliament,  that  it  lias  utterly  escaped  the  researches 
of  all  the  historians  of  our  Eastern  Empire,  that,  in  the  long 
and  interesting  debates  of  1813  on  the  admission  of  mission- 
aries to  India,  debates  of  which  the  most  valuable  part  has 
been  excellently  preserved  by  the  care  of  the  speakers,  no 
allusion  to  this  important  instrument  is  to  be  found.  The 
truth  is  that  this  treaty  is  a nonentity.  It  is  by  coercion,  it 
is  by  the  sword,  and  not  by  free  stipulation  with  the  gov- 
erned, that  England  rules  India ; nor  is  England  bound  by 
any  contract  whatever  not  to  deal  with  Bengal  as  she  deals 
with  Ireland.  She  may  set  up  a Bishop  of  Patna,  and  a 
Dean  of  Hoogley  ; she  may  grant  away  the  public  revenue 
for  the  maintenance  of  prebendaries  of  Benares  and  canons 
of  Moorshedabad  ; she  may  divide  the  country  into  parishes, 
and  place  a rector  with  a stipend  in  every  one  of  them  ; and 
all  this  without  infringing  any  positive  agreement.  If  there 
be  such  a treaty,  Mr.  Gladstone  can  have  no  difficulty  in 
making  known  its  date,  its  terms,  and,  above  all,  the  precise 
extent  of  the  territory  within  which  we  have  sinfully  bound 
ourselves  to  be  guilty  of  practical  atheism.  The  last  point 
is  of  great  importance.  For,  as  the  provinces  of  our  Indian 
empire  were  acquired  at  different  times,  and  in  very  differ- 
ent ways,  no  single  treaty,  indeed  no  ten  treaties,  will 
justify  the  system  pursued  by  our  government  there. 

The  plain  state  of  the  case  is  this.  No  man  in  his  senses 
would  dream  of  applying  Mr.  Gladstone’s  theory  to  India ; 
because,  if  so  applied,  it  would  inevitably  destroy  our  em- 
pire ; and,  with  our  empire,  the  best  chance  of  spreading 
Christianity  among  the  natives.  This  Mr.  Gladstone  felt. 
In  some  way  or  other  his  theory  was  to  be  saved,  and  the 
monstrous  consequences  avoided.  Of  intentional  misrepre- 
sentation we  are  quite  sure  he  is  incapable.  But  we  cannot 
acquit  him  of  that  unconscious  disingenuousness  from  which 
the  most  upright  man,  when  strongly  attached  to  an  opin- 
ion, is  seldom  wholly  free.  We  believe  that  he  recoiled  from 
the  ruinous  consequences  which  his  system  would  produce, 
if  tried  in  India  ; but  that  he  did  not  like  to  say  so,  lest  he 
should  lay  himself  open  to  the  charge  of  sacrificing  principle 
to  expediency,  a word  which  is  held  in  the  utmost  abhor- 
rence by  all  his  school.  Accordingly,  he  caught  at  the  no- 
tion of  a treaty,  a notion  which  must,  we  think,  have  origin 


386 


JIACAUfcAY’fl  MtSOnttAiKOVS 


ated  in  some  rhetorical  expression  which  he  has  imperfectly 
understood.  There  is  one  excellent  way  of  avoiding  the 
-drawing  of  a false  conclusion  from  a false  major;  and  that 
is  by  having  a false  minor . Inaccurate  history  is  an  admi- 
rable corrective  of  unreasonable  theory.  And  thus  it  is  in 
the  present  case.  A bad  general  rule  is  laid  down,  and  ob- 
stinately maintained,  wherever  the  consequences  are  not  too 
monstrous  for  human  bigotry.  But  when  they  become  so 
horrible  that  even  Christ  Church  shrinks,  that  even  Oriel 
stands  aghast,  the  rule  is  eimded  by  means  of  a fictitious 
contract.  One  imaginary  obligation  is  set  up  against  another. 
Mr.  Gladstone  first  preaches  to  governments  the  duty  of  un- 
dertaking an  enterprise  just  as  rational  as  the  Crusades,  and 
then  dispenses  them  from  it  on  the  ground  of  a treaty  which 
is  just  as  authentic  as  the  donation  of  Constantine  to  Pope 
Sylvester.  His  system  resembles  nothing  so  much  as  a 
forged  bond  with  a forged  release  indorsed  on  the  back 
of  it. 

With  more  show  of  reason  lie  rests  the  claim  of  the 
Scotch  Church  on  a contract.  lie  considers  that  contract, 
however,  as  most  unjustifiable,  and  speaks  of  the  setting  up 
of  the  Kirk  as  a disgraceful  blot  on  the  reign  of  William  the 
Third.  Surely  it  would  be  amusing,  if  it  were  not  melan- 
choly, to  see  a man  of  virtue  and  abilities  unsatisfied  with 
the  calamities  which  one  Church,  constituted  on  false  prin- 
ciples, has  brought  upon  the  empire,  and  repining  that  Scot- 
land is  not  in  the  same  state  with  Ireland,  that  no  Scottish 
agitator  is  raising  rent  and  putting  county  members  in  and 
out,  that  no  Presbyterian  association  is  dividing  supreme 
power  with  the  government,  that  no  meetings  of  precursors 
and  repealers  are  covering  the  side  of  the  Calton  Hill,  that 
twenty-five  thousand  troops  are  not  required  to  maintain 
order  on  the  north  of  the  Tweed,  that  the  anniversary  of 
the  Battle  of  Bothwell  Bridge  is  not  regularly  celebrated  by 
insult,  riot,  and  murder.  We  could  hardly  find  a stronger 
argument  against  Mr.  Gladstone’^  system  than  that  which 
Scotland  furnishes.  The  policy  which  has  been  followed  iu 
that  country  has  been  directly  opposed  to  the  policy  which 
he  recommends.  And  the  consequence  is  that  Scotland, 
having  been  one  of  the  rudest,  one  of  the  poorest,  one  of  the 
most  turbulent  countries  in  Europe,  has  become  one  of  the 
most  highly  civilized,  one  of  the  most  flourishing,  one  of  the 
most  tranquil.  The  atrocities  which  were  of  common  occur- 
rence while  an  unpopular  church  was  dominant  are  unknown. 


GLADSTONE  ON  CHURCH  AND  STATE, 


36? 


In  spite  of  a mutual  aversion  as  bitter  as  ever  separated 
one  people  from  another,  the  two  kingdoms  which  compose 
our  island  have  been  indissolubly  joined  together.  Of  the 
ancient  national  feeling  there  remains  just  enough  to  be  or- 
namental and  useful ; just  enough  to  inspire  the  poet,  and 
to  kindle  a generous  and  friendly  emulation  in  the  bosom  of 
the  soldier.  But  for  all  the  ends  of  government  the  nations 
are  one.  And  why  are  they  so  ? The  answer  is  simple. 
The  nations  are  one  for  all  the  ends  of  government,  because 
in  their  union  the  true  ends  of  government  alone  were  kept 
in  sight.  The  nations  are  one  because  the  Churches  are 
two. 

Such  is  the  union  of  England  with  Scotland,  an  union 
which  resembles  the  union  of  the  limbs  of  one  healthful  and 
vigorous  body,  all  moved  by  one  will,  all  co-operating  for 
common  ends.  The  system  of  Mr.  Gladstone  would  havo 
produced  an  union  which  can  be  compared  only  to  that 
which  is  the  subject  of  a wild  Persian  fable.  King  Zohak — 
we  tell  the  story  as  Mr.  Southey  tells  it  to  us — gave  the 
devil  leave  to  kiss  his  shoulders.  Instantly  two  serpents 
sprang  out,  who,  in  the  fury  of  hunger,  attacked  his  head, 
and  attempted  to  get  at  his  brain.  Zohak  pulled  them  a^way, 
and  tore  them  with  his  nails.  But  he  found  that  they  were 
inseparable  parts  of  himself,  and  that  what  he  was  lacerating 
was  his  own  flesh.  Perhaps  we  might  be  able  to  And,  if  we 
looked  round  the  world,  some  political  union  like  this,  some 
hideous  monster  of  a state,  cursed  with  one  principle  of  sen- 
sation and  two  principles  of  volition,  self-loathing  and  self- 
torturing, made  up  of  parts  which  are  driven  by  a frantic 
impulse  to  inflict  mutual  pain,  yet  are  doomed  to  feel  what- 
ever they  inflict,  which  are  divided  by  an  irreconcilable 
hatred,  yet  are  blended  in  an  indissoluble  identity.  Mr.* 
Gladstone,  from  his  tender  concern  for  Zohak,  is  unsatisfied 
because  the  devil  has  as  yet  kissed  only  one  shoulder,  be- 
cause there  is  not  a snake  mangling  and  mangled  on  the  left 
to  keep  in  countenance  his  brother  on  the  right. 

But  we  must  proceed  in  our  examination  of  his  theory. 
Having,  as  he  conceives,  proved  that  it  is  the  duty  of  every 
government  to  profess  some  religion  or  other,  right  or  wrong, 
and  to  establish  that  religion,  he  then  comes  to  the  question 
what  religion  a government  ought  to  prefer  ; and  he  decides 
this  question  in  favor  of  the  form  of  Christianity  established 
in  England.  The  Church  of  England  is,  according  to  him, 
the  pure  Catholic  Church  of  Christ,  which  possesses  the 


368  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

apostolic  succession  of  ministers,  and  within  whose  pale  is 
to  be  found  that  unity  which  is  essential  to  truth.  For  her 
decisions  he  claims  a degree  of  reverence  far  beyond  what 
she  has  ever,  in  any  of  her  formularies,  claimed  for  herself ; 
far  beyond  what  the  moderate  school  of  Bossuet  demands 
for  the  Pope  ; and  scarcely  short  of  what  that  school  would 
ascribe  to  Pope  and  General  Council  together.  To  separate 
from  her  communion  is  schism.  To  reject  her  traditions  or 
interpretations  of  Scripture  is  sinful  presumption. 

Mr.  Gladstone  pronounces  the  right  of  private  judgment, 
as  it  is  generally  understood  throughout  Protestant  Europe, 
to  be  a monstrous  abuse.  He  declares  himself  favorable,  in- 
deed, to  the  exercise  of  private  judgment,  after  a fashion  of 
his  own.  We  have,  according  to  him,  a right  to  judge  all 
the  doctrines  of  the  Church  of  England  to  be  sound,  but  not 
to  judge  any  of  them  to  be  unsound.  He  has  no  objection, 
he  assures  us,  to  active  inquiries  into  religious  questions. 
On  the  contrary,  he  thinks  such  inquiry  highly  desirable,  as 
long  as  it  does  not  lead  to  diversity  of  opinion  ; which  is 
much  the  same  thing  as  if  he  were  to  recommend  the  use  of 
fire  that  will  not  burn  down  houses,  or  of  brandy  that  will 
not  make  men  drunk.  He  conceives  it  to  be  perfectly  possi- 
ble for  mankind  to  exercise  their  intellects  vigorously  and 
freely  on  theological  subjects,  and  yet  to  come  to  exactly 
the  same  conclusions  with  each  other  and  with  the  Church 
of  England.  And  for  this  opinion  he  gives,  as  far  as  we 
have  been  able  to  discover,  no  reason  whatever,  except  that 
everybody  who  vigorously  and  freely  exercises  his  under- 
standing on  Euclid’s  Theorems  assents  to  them.  “ The 
activity  of  private  judgment,”  he  truly  observes,  “ and 
the  unity  and  strength  of  conviction  in  mathematics  vary 
directly  as  each  other.”  On  this  unquestionable  fact  he 
constructs  a somewhat  questionable  argument.  Every- 
body who  freely  inquires  agrees,  he  says,  with  Euclid.  But 
the  Church  is  as  much  in  the  right  as  Euclid.  Why,  then, 
should  not  every  free  inquirer  agree  with  the  Church? 
We  could  put  many  similar  questions.  Either  the  affirm- 
ative or  the  negative  of  the  proposition  that  King  Charles 
wrote  the  Icon  IZasilike  is  true  as  that  two  sides  of  a tri- 
angle are  greater  than  the  third  side.  Why,  then,  do  Dr. 
Wordsworth  and  Mr.  Ha  11am  agree  in  thinking  two  sides 
of  a triangle  greater  than  the  third  side,  and  yet  differ 
about  the  genuineness  of  the  Icon  Jj  as  Hike  ? The  state  of 
the  exact  s^iepces  proves,  says  Mr.  Gladstone,  that,  as  re- 


GLADSTONE  ON  CHURCH  AND  STATE. 


369 


epects  religion  “ the  association  of  these  two  ideas,  activity 
of  inquiry,  and  variety  of  conclusion,  is  a fallacious  one.” 
We  might  just  as  well  turn  the  argument  the  other  way, 
and  infer  from  the  variety  of  religious  opinions  that  there 
must  necessarily  be  hostile  mathematical  sects,  some  affirm- 
ing and  some  denying,  that  the  square  of  the  hypothenuse 
is  equal  to  the  squares  of  the  sides.  But  we  do  not  think 
either  the  one  analogy  or  the  other  of  the  smallest  value. 
Our  way  of  ascertaining  the  tendency  of  free  inquiry  is 
simply  to  open  our  eyes  and  look  at  the  world  in  which  we 
live ; and  there  we  see  that  free  inquiry  on  mathematical 
subjects  produces  unity,  and  that  free  inquiry  on  moral  sub- 
jects produces  discrepancy.  There  would  undoubtedly  be 
less  discrepancy  if  inquirers  were  more  diligent  and  candid. 
But  discrepancy  there  will  be  among  the  most*  diligent 
and  candid,  as  long  as  the  constitution  of  the  human  mind, 
and  the  nature  of  moral  evidence  continue  unchanged. 
That  we  have  not  freedom  and  unity  together  is  a very  sad 
thing ; and  so  it  is  that  we  have  not  wings.  But  wo  are 
just  as  likely  to  see  the  one  defect  removed  as  the  other. 
It  is  not  only  in  religion  that  this  discrepancy  is  found.  It 
is  the  same  with  all  matters  which  depend  on  moral  evi- 
dence, with  judicial  questions,  for  example,  and  with  polit- 
ical questions.  All  the  judges  will  work  a sum  in  the  rule 
of  three  on  the  same  principle,  and  bring  out  the  same  con- 
clusion. But  it  does  not  follow  that,  however  honest  and 
laborious  they  may  be,  they  will  all  be  of  one  mind  on  the 
Douglas  case.  So  it  is  vain  to  hope  that  there  may  be  a 
free  constitution  under  which  every  representative  will  be 
unanimously  elected,  and  every  law  unanimously  passed  ; 
and  it  would  be  ridiculous  for  a statesman  to  stand  wonder- 
ing and  bemoaning  himself  because  people  who  agree  in 
thinking  that  two  and  two  make  four  cannot  agree  about 
the  new  poor  law,  or  the  administration  of  Canada. 

There  are  two  intelligible  and  consistent  courses  which 
may  be  followed  with  respect  to  the  exercise  of  private 
judgment;  the  course  of  the  Romanist,  who  interdicts 
private  judgment  because  of  its  inevitable  inconveniences ; 
and  the  course  of  the  Protestant,  Avho  permits  private  judg- 
ment in  spite  of  its  inevitable  inconveniences.  Both  are 
more  reasonable  than  Mr.  Gladstone,  who  would  have  pri- 
vate judgment  without  its  inevitable  inconveniences.  The 
Romanist  produces  repose  by  means  of  stupefaction.  The 
Protestant  encourages  activity,  though  he  knows  that  where 
Yol.  II.— 24 


370  macaulay's  miscellaneous  whitings. 

there  is  much  activity  there  will  be  some  aberration.  Mr. 
Gladstone  wishes  for  the  unity  of  the  fifteenth  century  with 
the  active  and  searching  spirit  of  the  sixteenth.  He  might 
as  well  wish  to  be  in  two  places  at  once. 

When  Mr.  Gladstone  says  that  we  “ actually  require  dis- 
crepancy of  opinion — require  and  demand  error,  falsehood, 
blindness,  and  plume  ourselves  on  such  discrepancy  as  at- 
testing a freedom  which  is  only  valuable  when  used  for 
unity  in  the  truth,”  he  expresses  himself  with  more  energy 
than  precision.  Nobody  loves  discrepancy  for  the  sake  of 
discrepancy.  But  a person  who  conscientiously  believes 
that  free  inquiry  is,  on  the  whole,  beneficial  to  the  interests 
of  truth,  and  that,  from  the  imperfection  of  the  human  fac- 
ulties, wherever  there  is  much  free  inquiry  there  will  be 
some  discrepancy,  may,  without  impropriety,  consider  such 
discrepancy,  though  in  itself  an  evil,  as  a sign  of  good. 
That  there  are  ten  thousand  thieves  in  London  is  a very 
melancholy  fact.  But,  looked  at  in  one  point  of  view,  it  is 
a reason  for  exultation.  For  what  other  city  could  maintain 
ten  thousand  thieves  ? What  must  be  the  mass  of  wealth 
where  the  fragments  gleaned  by  lawless  pilfering  rise  to 
so  large  an  amount  ? St.  Kilda  would  not  support  a single 
pickpocket.  The  quantity  of  theft  is,  to  a certain  extent, 
an  index  of  the  quantity  of  useful  industry  and  judicious 
eculation.  And  just  as  we  may,  from  the  great  number 
t rogues  m a town,  infer  that  much  honest  gain  is  made 
*he ro ; so  may  we  often,  from  the  quantity  of  error  in  a 
immunity,  draw  a cheering  inference  as  to  the  degree  in 
which  the  public  mind  is  turned  to  those  inquiries  which 
rtione  oan  lead  to  rational  convictions  of  truth. 

Mr.  Gladstone  seems  to  imagine  that  most  Protestants 
chink  it  possible  for  the  same  doctrine  to  be  at  once  true 
and  false ; or  that  they  think  it  immaterial  whether,  on  a 
religious  question,  a man  comes  to  a true  or  a false  conclu- 
sion. If  there  be  any  Protestants  who  hold  notions  so  ab- 
surd, wre  abandon  them  to  his  censure. 

The  Protestant  doctrine  touching  the  right  of  private 
judgment,  that  doctrine  which  is  the  common  foundation 
of  the  Anglican,  the  Lutheran,  and  the  Calvinistic  Churches, 
that  doctrine  by  which  every  sect  of  dissenters  vindicates 
its  separation,  we  conceive  not  to  be  this,  that  opposite  doc- 
trines may  both  be  true  ; nor  this,  that  truth  and  falsehood 
are  both  equally  good ; nor  yet  this,  that  all  speculative 
error  is  necessarily  innocent ; but  this,  that  there  is  on  the 


et  cmnon  a kb  8ti 

face  of  the  earth  no  visible  body  to  whose  decrees  men  are 
bound  to  submit  their  private  judgment  on  points  of  faitbu 
Is  there  always  such  a visible  body  ? W as  there  Such  a 
visible  body  in  the  year  1500  ? If  not,  why  are  wo  to  be* 
lieve  that  there  is  such  a body  in  the  year  1839?  If  there 
was  such  a body  in  the  year  1500,  what  was  it?  Was  it  the 
Church  of  Rome  ? And  how  can  the  Church  of  England  be 
orthodox  now  if  the  Church  of  Rome  was  orthodox  then? 

aIn  England,”  says  Mr.  Gladstone,  “ the  case  was  widely 
different  from  that  of  the  Continent.  Her  reformation  did 
not  destroy,  but  successfully  maintained  the  unity  and  suc- 
cession of  the  Church  in  her  apostolical  ministry.  We 
have,  therefore,  still  among  us  the  ordained  hereditary  wit- 
nesses of  the  truth,  conveying  it  to  us  through  an  unbroken 
series  from  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  and  his  Apostles.  This 
is  to  us  the  ordinary  voice  of  authority ; of  authority 
equally  reasonable  and  equally  true,  whether  we  will  hear, 
or  whether  we  will  forbear.” 

Mr.  Gladstone’s  reasoning  is  not  so  clear  as  might  be  de- 
sired. We  have  among  us,  he  says,  ordained  hereditary 
witnesses  of  the  truth,  and  their  voice  is  to  us  the  voice 
of  authority.  Undoubtedly,  if  they  are  witnesses  of  the 
truth,  their  voice  is  the  voice  of  authority.  But  this  is 
little  more  than  saying  that  the  truth  is  the  truth.  Nor 
is  truth  more  true  because  it  comes  in  an  unbroken 
series  from  the  Apostles.  The  Nicene  faith  is  not  more 
true  in  the  mouth  of  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  than 
in  that  of  a moderator  of  the  General  Assembly.  If 
our  respect  for  the  authority  of  the  Church  is  to  be  only 
consequent  upon  our  conviction  of  the  truth  of  her  doc- 
trines, we  come  at  once  to  that  monstrous  abuse,  the  Prot- 
estant exercise  of  private  judgment.  But  if  Mr.  Gladstone 
means  that  we  ought  to  believe  that  the  Church  of  England 
speaks  the  truth  because  she  has  the  apostolical  succession, 
we  greatly  doubt  whether  such  doctrine  can  be  maintained. 
In  the  first  place,  what  proof  have  we  of  the  fact?  We 
have,  indeed,  heard  it  said  that  Providence  would  certainly 
have  interfered  to  preserve  the  apostolical  succession  in  the 
true  Church.  But  this  is  an  argument  fitted  for  understand- 
ings of  a different  kind  from  Mr.  Gladstone’s.  Pie  will 
hardly  tell  us  that  the  Church  of  England  is  the  true  Church 
because  she  lias  the  succession  ; and  that  she  has  the  suc- 
cession because  she  is  the  true  Church. 

What  evidence,  then,  have  we  for  the  fact  of  the  apos- 


372  macattlay’s  miscellaneous  writings 

tolical  succession  ? And  here  we  may  easily  defend  the  truth 
against  Oxford  with  the  same  arguments  with  which,  in  old 
times,  the  truth  was  defended  by  Oxford  against  Rome.  In 
this  stage  of  our  combat  with  Mr.  Gladstone,  we  need  few 
weapons  except  those  which  we  find  in  the  well-furnished 
and  well  ordered  armory  of  Chiilingworth. 

The  transmission  of  orders  from  the  Apostles  to  an  Eng- 
lish clergyman  of  the  present  day  must  have  been  through  a 
very  great  number  of  intermediate  persons.  Now,  it  is 
probable  that  no  clergyman  in  the  Church  of  England  can 
trace  up  his  spiritual  genealogy  from  bishop  to  bishop  so  far 
back  as  the  time  of  the  Conquest.  There  remain  many  cen- 
turies during  which  the  transmission  of  his  orders  is  buried 
in  utter  darkness.  And  whether  he  be  a priest  by  succession 
from  the  Apostles  depends  on  the  question,  whether  during 
that  long  period,  some  thousands  of  events  took  place,  any 
one  of  which  may,  without  any  gross  improbability,  be  sup- 
posed not  to  have  taken  place.  We  have  not  a tittle  of 
evidence  for  any  one  of  these  events.  We  do  not  even 
know  the  names  or  countries  of  the  men  to  whom  it  is  taken 
for  granted  that  these  events  happened.  We  do  not  know 
whether  the  spiritual  ancestors  of  any  one  of  our  contemj30- 
raries  were  Spanish  or  Armenian,  Arian  or  Orthodox.  In 
the  utter  absence  of  all  particular  evidence,  we  are  surely 
entitled  to  require  that  there  should  be  very  strong  evidence 
indeed  that  the  strictest  regularity  was  observed  in  every 
generation,  and  that  episcopal  functions  were  exercised  by 
none  who  were  not  bishops,  by  succession  from  the  Apos- 
tles. But  we  have  no  such  evidence.  In  the  first  place,  we 
have  not  full  and  accurate  information  touching  the  policy 
of  the  Church  during  the  century  which  followed  the  perse- 
cution of  Nero.  That,  during  this  period,  the  overseers  of 
all  the  little  Christian  societies  scattered  through  the  Roman 
empire,  held  their  spiritual  authority  by  virtue  of  holy  or- 
ders derived  from  the  Apostles,  cannot  be  proved  by  contem- 
porary testimony,  or  by  any  testimony  which  can  be  regarded 
as  decisive.  The  question,  whether  the  primitive  ecclesias- 
tical constitution  bore  a greater  resemblance  to  the  Anglican 
or  to  the  Calvinistic  model  has  been  fiercely  disputed.  It 
is  a question  on  which  men  of  eminent  parts,  learning,  and 
piety  have  differed,  and  do  to  this  day  differ  very  widely. 
It  is  a question  on  which  at  least  a full  half  of  the  ability 
and  erudition  of  Protestant  Europe  has,  ever  since  the 
Reformation,  been  opposed  to  the  Anglican  pretensions, 


GLADSTONE  ON  CttUKCtt  AND  STATE. 


375 


Mr.  Gladstone  himself,  we  are  persuaded,  would  have  the 
candor  to  allow  that,  if  no  evidence  were  admitted  but  that 
which  is  furnished  by  the  genuine  Christian  literature  of  the 
first  two  centuries,  judgment  would  not  go  in  favor  of  prel- 
acy. And  if  he  looked  at  the  subject  as  calmly  as  he  would 
look  at  a controversy  respecting  the  Roman  Comitia  or  the 
Anglo-Saxon  Wittenagemote,  he  would  probably  think  that 
the  absence  of  contemporary  evidence  during  so  long  a 
period  was  a defect  which  later  attestations,  however  numer- 
ous, could  but  imperfectly  supply.  It  is  surely  impolitic 
to  rest  the  doctrines  of  the  English  Church  on  a historical 
theory  which,  to  ninety-nine  Protestants  out  of  a hundred, 
would  seem  much  more  questionable  than  any  of  those  doc- 
trines. Nor  is  this  all.  Extreme  obscurity  overh an gs  the 
history  of  the  middle  ages ; and  the  facts  which  are  dis- 
cernible through  that  obscurity  prove  that  the  Church  was 
exceedingly  ill-regulated.  We  read  of  sees  of  the  highest 
dignity  openly  sold,  transferred  backwards  and  forwards 
by  popular  tumult,  bestowed  sometimes  by  a profligate 
woman  on  her  paramour,  sometimes  by  a warlike  baron  on 
a kinsman  still  a stripling.  We  read  of  bishops  of  ten  years 
old,  of  bishops  of  five  years  old,  of  many  popes  who  were 
mere  boys,  and  who  rivalled  the  frantic  dissoluteness  of 
Caligula,  nay,  of  a female  pope.  And  though  this  last  story, 
once  believed  throughout  all  Europe,  has  been  disproved  by 
the  strict  researches  of  modern  criticism,  the  most  discern- 
ing of  those  who  reject  it  have  admitted  that  it  is  not  in- 
trinsically improbable.  In  our  own  island,  it  was  the  com- 
plaint of  Alfred  that  not  a single  priest  south  of  the  Thames, 
and  very  few  on  the  north,  could  read  either  Latin  or 
English.  And  this  illiterate  clergy  exercised  their  ministry 
amidst  a rude  and  half-lieathen  population,  in  which  Danish 
pirates,  unchristened,  or  christened  by  the  hundred  on  a 
field  of  battle,  were  mingled  with  a Saxon  peasantry  scarcely 
better  instructed  in  religion.  The  state  of  Ireland  was  still 
worse.  “ Tota  ilia  per  universam  Hiberniam  dissolutio 
ecclesiasticae  disciplinae,  ilia  ubique  pro  consuetudine  Chris- 
tiana saeva  subintroducta  barbaries,”  are  the  expressions  of 
St.  Bernard.  We  are,  therefore,  at  a loss  to  conceive  how 
any  clergyman  can  feel  confident  that  his  orders  have  come 
down  correctly.  Whether  he  be  reahy  a ‘uiccessor  of  the 
Apostles  depends  on  an  immense  number  of  such  contin- 
gencies as  these ; whether,  under  King  Ethelwolf,  a stupid 
priest  might  not,  while  baptizing  several  scores  of  Danish 


3 /4  MAOAtTtAY*S  Misolstl.  VKisoCsi 

prisoners  who  had  just  made  their  option  between  the  fmi 
and  the  gallows,  inadvertently  omit  to  perform  the  rite  on  one 
of  these  graceless  proselytes ; whether,  in  the  seventh  Cen- 
tury, an  impostor,  who  had  never  received  consecration, 
might  not  have  passed  himself  off  as  a bishop  on  a rude 
tribe  of  Scots ; whether  a lad  of  twelve  did  really,  by  a 
ceremony  huddled  over  when  he  was  too  drunk  to  know 
what  he  was  about,  convey  the  episcopal  character  to  a lad 
of  ten. 

Since  the  first  century,  not  less,  in  all  probability,  than 
a hundred  thousand  persons  have  exercised  the  functions  of 
bishops.  That  many  of  these  have  not  been  bishops  by 
apostolical  succession  is  quite  certain.  Hooker  admits  that 
deviations  from  the  general  rule  have  been  frequent,  and 
with  a boldness  worthy  of  his  high  and  statesmanlike  intel- 
lect, pronounces  them  to  have  been  often  justifiable.  “ There 
may  be,”  says  he,  “sometimes  very  just  and  sufficient  rea- 
son to  allow  ordination  made  without  a bishop.  Where  the 
Church  must  needs  have  some  ordained,  and  neither  hath 
nor  can  have  possibly  a bishop  to  ordain,  in  case  of  such 
necessity  the  ordinary  institution  of  God  hath  given  often* 
times , and  may  give  place.  And  therefore  we  are  not 
simply  without  exception  to  urge  a lineal  descent  of  power 
from  the  Apostles  by  continued  succession  of  bishops  in 
every  effectual  ordination.”  There  can  be  little  doubt,  we 
think,  that  the  succession,  if  it  ever  existed,  has  often  been 
interrupted  in  ways  much  less  respectable.  For  example, 
let  us  suppose,  and  we  are  sure  that  no  well-informed  per- 
son will  think  the  supposition  by  any  means  improbable, 
that,  in  the  third  century,  a man  of  no  principle  and  some 
parts,  who  has,  in  the  course  of  a roving  and  discreditable 
life,  been  a catechumen  at  Antioch,  and  has  there  become 
familiar  with  Christian  usages  and  doctrines,  afterwards 
rambles  to  Marseilles,  where  he  finds  a Christian  society, 
rich,  liberal,  and  simple-hearted.  He  pretends  to  be  a 
Christian,  attracts  notice  by  his  abilities  and  affected  zeal, 
and  is  raised  to  the  episcopal  dignity  without  having  ever 
been  baptized.  That  such  an  event  might  happen,  nay,  was 
very  likely  to  happen,  cannot  well  be  disputed  by  any  one 
who  has  read  the  Life  of  Peregrinus.  The  very  virtues,  in- 
deed, which  distinguished  the  early  Christians,  seem  to  have 
laid  them  open  to  those  arts  which  deceived 

“ Uriel,  though  Regent  of  the  Sun,  and  held 
The  sharpest-sighted  spirit  ol  all  in  Heaven." 


GLADSTONE  ON  CHURCH  AND  STATE.  S75 

Now  this  unbaptized  impostor  is  evidently  no  successor 
of  the  Apostles.  He  is  not  even  a Christian  ; and  all  orders 
derived  through  such  a pretended  bishop  are  altogether  in- 
valid. Do  we  know  enough  of  the  fetate  of  the  world  and 
of  the  Church  in  the  third  century  to  be  able  to  say  with 
confidence  that  there  were  not  at  that  time  twenty  such 
pretended  bishops?  Every  such  case  makes  a break  in  the 
apostolical  succession. 

Now,  suppose  that  a break,  such  as  Hooker  admits  to 
have  been  both  common  and  justifiable,  or  such  as  we  have 
supposed  to  be  produced  by  hypocrisy  and  cupidity,  were 
found  in  the  chain  which  connected  the  Apostles  with  any 
of  the  missionaries  who  first  spread  Christianity  in  the 
wilder  parts  of  Europe,  who  can  say  how  extensive  the  ef- 
fect of  this  single  break  may  be  ? Suppose  that  St.  Patrick, 
for  example,  if  ever  there  was  such  a man,  or  Theodore  of* 
Tarsus,  who  is  said  to  have  consecrated  in  the  seventh  cen- 
tury the  first  bishops  of  many  English  sees,  had  not  the 
true  apostolical  orders,  is  it  not  conceivable  that  such  a cir- 
cumstance may  affect  the  orders  of  many  clergymen  now 
living?  Even  if  it  were  possible,  which  it  assuredly  is  not, 
to  prove  that  the  Church  had  the  apostolical  orders  in  the 
third  century,  it  would  be  impossible  to  prove  that  those 
orders  were  not  in  the  twelfth  century  so  far  lost  that  no 
ecclesiastic  could  be  certain  of  the  legitimate  descent  of  his 
own  spiritual  character.  And  if  this  were  so,  no  subsequent 
precautions  could  repair  the  evil. 

Chillingworth  states  the  conclusion  at  which  he  had  ar- 
rived on  this  subject  in  these  very  remarkable  words  : “ That 
of  ten  thousand  probables  no  one  should  be  false ; that  of 
ten  thousand  requisites,  whereof  any  one  may  fail,  not  one 
should  be  wanting,  this  to  me  is  extremely  improbable,  and 
ev^en  cousin-german  to  impossible.  So  that  the  assurance 
hereof  is  like  a machine  composed  of  an  innumerable  multi- 
tude of  pieces,  of  which  it  is  strangely  unlikely  but  some 
will  be  out  of  order;  and  yet,  if  any  one  be  so,  the  whole 
fabric  falls  of  necessity  to  the  ground : and  he  that  shall 
put  them  together,  and  maturely  consider  all  the  possible 
ways  of  lapsing  and  nullifying  a priesthood  in  the  Church 
of  Rome,  will  be  very  inclinable  to  think  that  it  is  a hun- 
dred to  one,  that  among  a hundred  seeming  priests,  there 
is  not  one  true  one ; nay,  that  it  is  not  a thing  very  im- 
probable that,  amongst  those  many  millions  which  make  up 
the  Romish  hierarchy,  there  are  not  twenty  true.”  We  do 


870  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


pretend  to  know  to  what  precise  extent  the  canonists  of 
Oxford  agree  with  those  of  Rome  as  to  the  circumstances 
which  nullify  orders.  We  will  not,  therefore,  go  so  far  as 
Chillingworth.  We  only  say  that  we  see  no  satisfactory 
proof  of  the  fact,  that  the  Church  of  England  possesses  the 
apostolical  succession.  And,  after  all,  if  Mr.  Gladstone 
could  prove  the  apostolical  succession,  what  would  the  apos- 
tolical succession  prove  ? He  says  that  “ we  have  among 
us  the  ordained  hereditary  witnesses  of  the  truth,  convey- 
ing it  to  us  through  an  unbroken  series  from  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  and  his  Apostles.”  Is  this  the  fact.  Is  there  any 
doubt  that  the  orders  of  the  Church  of  England  are  gen- 
erally derived  from  the  Church  of  Rome  ? Does  not  the 
Church  of  England  declare,  does  not  Mr.  Gladstone  himself 
admit,  that  the  Church  of  Rome  teaches  much  error  and 
condemns  much  truth  ? And  is  it  not  quite  clear,  that  ag 
far  as  the  doctrines  of  the  Church  of  England  differ  from 
those  of  the  Church  of  Rome,  so  far  the  Church  of  England 
conveys  the  truth  through  a broken  series  ? 

That  the  founders,  lay  and  clerical,  of  the  Church  of 
England,  corrected  all  that  required  correction  in  the  doc- 
trines of  the  Church  of  Rome,  and  nothing  more,  may  be  '£ 
quite  true.  But  we  never  can  admit  the  circumstance  that 
the  Church  of  England  possesses  the  apostolical  succession 
as  a proof  that  she  is  thus  perfect.  No  stream  can  rise 
higher  than  its  fountain.  The  succession  of  ministers  in  the 
Church  of  England,  derived  as  it  is  through  the  Church  of 
of  Rome,  can  never  prove  more  for  the  Church  of  England 
than  it  proves  for  the  Church  of  Rome.  But  this  is  not  all. 
The  Arian  Churches  which  once  predominated  in  the  king- 
doms of  the  Ostrogoths,  the  Visigoths,  the  Burgundians,  the 
Vandals,  and  the  Lombards,  were  all  episcopal  churches,  $ 
and  all  had  a fairer  claim  than  that  of  England  to  the  apos-  • 
tolical  succession,  as  being  much  nearer  to  the  apostolical 
times.  In  the  East,  the  Greek  Church,  which  is  at  variance 
on  points  of  faith  with  all  the  Western  Churches,  has  an 
equal  claim  to  this  succession.  The  Nestorian,  the  Euty- 
chian,  the  Jacobite  Churches,  all  heretical,  all  condemned 
by  councils,  of  which  even  Protestant  divines  have  gener- 
ally spoken  with  respect,  had  an  equal  claim  to  the  apostoli- 
cal succession.  Now,  if,  of  teachers  having  apostolical  or- 
ders, a vast  majority  have  taught  much  error,  if  a large  pro- 
portion have  taught  deadly  heresy,  if,  on  the  other  hand,  as 
Mr,  Gladstone  himself  admits,  churches  not  having  apostoli- 


GLADSTONE  ON  CHURCH  AND  STATE. 


877 


cal  orders,  that  of  Scotland  for  example,  have  been  nearer 
to  the  standard  of  orthodoxy  than  the  majority  of  teachers 
who  have  had  apostolical  orders,  how  can  he  possibly  call 
upon  us  to  submit  our  private  judgment  to  the  authority  of 
a Church  on  the  ground  that  she  has  these  orders? 

Mr.  Gladstone  dwells  much  upon  the  importance  of  unity 
in  doctrine.  Unity,  he  tells  us,  is  essential  to  truth.  And 
this  is  most  unquestionable.  But  when  he  goes  on  to  tell 
us  that  this  unity  is  the  characteristic  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land, that  she  is  one  in  body  and  in  spirit,  we  are  compelled 
to  differ  from  him  widely.  The  apostolical  succession  she 
may  or  may  not  have.  But  unity  she  most  certainly  has 
not,  and  never  has  had.  It  is  matter  of  j^erfect  notoriety, 
that  her  formularies  are  framed  in  such  a manner  as  to  ad- 
mit to  her  highest  offices  men  who  differ  from  each  other 
more  widely  than  a very  high  Churchman  differs  from  a 
Catholic,  or  a very  low  Churchman  from  a Presbyterian  ; 
and  that  the  general  leaning  of  the  Church,  with  respect  to 
some  important  questions,  has  been  sometimes  one  wray  and 
sometimes  another.  Take,  for  example,  the  questions  agi- 
tated between  the  Calvinists  and  the  Arminians.  Do  wre 
find  in  the  Church  of  England,  with  respect  to  those  ques- 
tions, that  unity  which  is  essential  to  truth?  Was  it  ever 
found  in  the  Church  ? Is  it  not  certain  that,  at  the  end  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  the  rulers  of  the  Church  held  doc- 
trines as  Calvinistic  as  ever  were  held  by  any  Cameroman, 
and  not  only  held  them,  but  persecuted  everybody  who  did 
not  hold  them?  And  is  it  not  equally  certain,  that  the 
rulers  of  the  Church  have,  in  very  recent  limes,  considered 
Calvinism  as  a disqualification  for  high  preferment,  if  not 
for  holy  orders  ? Look  at  the  questions  which  Archbishop 
Whitgift  propounded  to  Barret,  questions  framed  in  the  very 
spirit  of  William  Huntington,  S.  S.#  And  then  look  at  the 
eighty-seven  questions  which  Bishop  Marsh,  within  our  own 
memory,  propounded  to  candidates  for  ordination.  We 
should  be  loth  to  say  that  either  of  these  celebrated  prelates 
had  intruded  himself  into  a Church  whose  doctrines  he  ab- 
horred, and  that  he  deserved  to  be  stripped  of  his  gown. 
Yet  it  is  quite  certain  that  one  or  other  of  them  must  have 
been  very  greatly  in  error.  John  Wesley  again,  and  Cow- 
per’s  friend,  John  Newton,  were  both  Presbyters  of  this 

* One  question  was,  whether  God  had  from  eternity  ref  robated  certain  per- 
*ons ; and  why  ? Tho  answer  which  contented  the  Archbisb  op  was  “ Affirmative, 
•t  quia  voluit,” 


378  MACAI7LAY*S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

Church.  Both  were  men  of  ability.  Both  we  believe  te 
have  been  men  of  rigid  integrity,  men  who  would  not  have 
subscribed  a Confession  of  Faith  which  they  disbelieved  for 
the  richest  bishopric  in  the  empire.  Yet  on  the  subject  of 
predestination,  Newton  was  strongly  attached  to  doctrines 
which  Wesley  designated  as  “ blasphemy,  which  might  make 
the  cars  of  a Christian  to  tingle.”  Indeed,  it  will  not  be 
disputed  that  the  clergy  of  the  Established  Church  are  divi- 
ded as  to  these  questions,  and  that  her  formularies  are  not 
found  practically  to  exclude  even  scrupulously  honest  men 
of  both  sides  from  her  altars.  It  is  notorious  that  some  of 
her  most  distinguished  rulers  think  this  latitude  a good  thing, 
and  would  be  sorry  to  see  it  restricted  in  favor  of  either 
opinion.  And  herein  we  most  cordially  agree  with  them. 
But  what  becomes  of  the  unity  of  the  Church,  and  of  that 
truth  to  which  unity  is  essential  ? Mr.  Gladstone  tells  us 
that  the  Regium  Donum  was  given  originally  to  orthodox 
Presbyterian  ministers,  but  that  part  of  it  is  now  received 
by  their  heterodox  successors.  “ This,”  he  says,  “ serves  to 
illustrate  the  difficulty  in  which  governments  entangle  them- 
selves, when  they  covenant  with  arbitrary  systems  of  opin- 
ion, and  not  with  the  Church  alone.  The  opinion  passes 
away,  but  the  gift  remains.”  But  is  it  not  clear  that  if  a 
strong  Supralapsarian  had,  under  Whitgift’s  primacy,  left 
a large  estate  at  the  disposal  of  the  bishops  for  ecclesiastical 
purposes,  in  the  hope  that  the  rulers  of  the  Church  would 
abide  by  Whitgift’s  theology,  he  would  really  have  been 
giving  his  substance  for  the  support  of  doctrines  which  he 
detested  ? The  opinion  would  have  passed  away,  and  the 
gift  would  have  remained. 

This  is  only  a single  instance.  What  wide  differences 
of  opinion  respecting  the  operation  of  the  sacraments  are 
held  by  bishops,  doctors,  presbyters  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land, all  men  who  have  conscientiously  declared  assent  to 
her  articles,  all  men  who  are,  according  to  Mr.  Gladstone, 
ordained  hereditary  witnesses  of  the  truth,  all  men  whose 
voices  make  up  what  he  tells  us,  is  the  vice  of  true  and  rea- 
sonable authority  ! Here,  again,  the  Church  has  not  unity ; 
and  as  unity  is  the  essential  condition  of  truth,  the  Church 
has  not  the  truth. 

Nay,  take  the  very  question  which  we  are  discussing 
with  Mr.  Gladstone.  To  what  extent  does  the  Ch  .irch  of 
England  allow  of  the  right  of  private  judgment?  What 
degree  of  authority  does  she  claim  for  herself  in  virtue  of 


GLADSTONE  ON  CHURCH  AND  STATE. 


379 


the  apostolical  succession  of  her  ministers  ? Mr.  Gladstone, 
a very  able  and  a very  honest  man,  takes  a view  of  this 
matter  widely  differing  from  the  view  taken  by  others  whom 
he  will  admit  to  he  as  able  and  as  honest  as  himself.  Peo- 
ple who  altogether  dissent  from  him  on  this  subject  eat  the 
bread  of  the  Church,  preach  in  her  pulpits,  dispense  her 
sacraments,  confer  her  orders,  and  carry  on  that  apostolical 
succession,  the  nature  and  importance  of  which,  according 
to  him,  they  do  not  comprehend.  Is  this  unity  ? Is  this 
truth  ? 

It  will  be  observed  that  we  arc  not  putting  cases  of  dis- 
honest men  who,  for  the  sake  of  lucre,  falsely  pretend  to  be- 
lieve in  the  doctrines  of  an  establishment.  W e are  putting 
cases  of  men  as  upright  as  ever  lived,  who,  differing  on 
theological  questions  of  the  highest  importance,  and*  avow- 
ing that  difference,  arc  yet  priests  and  prelates  of  the  same 
Church.  We  therefore  say,  that  on  some  points  which  Mr. 
Gladstone  himself  thinks  of  vital  importance,  the  Church 
has  either  not  spoken  at  all,  or  what  is  for  all  practical  pur- 
poses the  same  thing,  has  not  spoken  in  language  to  be 
understood  even  by  honest  and  sagacious  divines.  The  re- 
ligion of  the  Church  of  England  is  so  far  from  exhibiting 
that  unity  of  doctrine  which  Mr,  Gladstone  represents  as 
her  distinguishing  glory,  that  it  is,  in  fact,  a bundle  of  re- 
ligious systems  without  number.  It  comprises  the  religious 
system  of  Bishop  Tomline,  and  the  religious  system  of  John 
Newton,  and  all  the  religious  systems  which  lie  between 
them.  It  comprises  the  religious  system  of  Mr.  Newman, 
and  the  religious  system  of  the  Archbishop  of  Dublin,  and 
all  the  religious  systems  which  lie  between  them.  All  these 
different  opinions  are  held,  avowed,  preached,  printed,  within 
the  pale  of  the  Church,  by  men  of  unquestioned  integrity  and 
understanding. 

Do  we  make  this  diversity  a topic  of  reproach  to  the 
Church  of  England?  Far  from  it.  We  would  oppose  with 
all  our  power  every  attempt  to  narrow  her  basis  ! Would 
to  God  that,  a hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  a good  king  and 
a good  primate  had  possessed  the  power  as  well  as  the  will 
to  widen  it ! It  was  a noble 'enterprise,  worthy  of  William 
and  of  Tillotson,  But  what  becomes  of  all  Mr.  Gladstone’s 
eloquent  exhortations  to  unity  ? Is  it  not  mere  mockery  to 
attach  so  much  importance  to  unity  in  form  and  name, 
where  there  is  so  little  in  substance,  to  shudder  at  the 
thought  of  two  churches  in  alliance  with  one  state,  and  to 


380 


MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS, 


endure  with  patience  the  spectacle  of  a hundred  sects  bat> 
tling  within  one  church  ? And  is  it  not  clear  that  Mr.  Glad- 
stone is  bound,  on  all  his  own  principles,  to  abandon  the 
defence  of  a church  in  which  unity  is  not  found  ? Is  it  not 
clear  that  he  is  bound  to  divide  the  House  of  Commons 
against  every  grant  of  money  wLich  may  be  proposed  for 
the  clergy  of  the  Established  Church  in  the  colonies  ? He 
objects  to  the  vote  for  Maynooth,  because  it  is  monstrous 
to  pay  one  man  to  teach  truth,  and  another  to  denounce 
that  truth  as  falsehood.  But  it  is  a mere  chance  whether 
any  sum  which  he  votes  for  the  English  Church  in  any  col- 
ony will  go  to  the  maintenance  of  an  Arminian  or  a Calvin- 
ist, of  a man  like  Mr.  Fronde,  or  of  a man  like  Dr.  Arnold. 
It  is  a mere  chance,  therefore,  whether  it  will  go  to  support 
a teacher  of  truth,  or  one  who  will  denounce  that  truth  as 
falsehood. 

This  argument  seems  to  us  at  once  to  dispose  of  all  that 
part  of  Mr.  Gladstone’s  book  which  respects  grants  of  public 
moneys  to  dissenting  bodies.  All  such  grants  he  condemns. 
But  surely,  if  it  be  wrong  to  give  the  money  of  the  public 
for  the  support  of  those  who  teach  false  doctrine,  it  is  wrong 
to  give  that  money  for  the  support  of  the  ministers  of  the 
Established  Church.  For  it  is  quite  certain  that,  whether 
Calvin  or  Arminius  be  in  the  right,  whether  Laud  or  Burnet 
be  in  the  right,  a great  deal  of  false  doctrine  is  taught  by 
the  ministers  of  the  Established  Church.  If  it  be  said  that 
the  points  on  which  the  clergy  of  the  Church  of  England 
differ  ought  to  be  passed  over,  for  the  sake  of  the  many 
important  points  on  which  they  agree,  why  may  not  the 
same  argument  be  maintained  with  respect  to  other  sects 
which  hold  in  common  with  the  Church  of  England  the 
fundamental  doctrines  of  Christianity?  The  principle  that 
a ruler  is  bound  in  conscience  to  propagate  religious  truth, 
and  to  propagate  no  religious  doctrine  which  is  untrue,  is 
abandoned  as  soon  as  it  is  admitted  that  a gentleman  of  Mr. 
Gladstone’s  opinions  may  lawfully  vote  the  public  money  to 
a chaplain  whose  opinions  are  those  of  Paley  or  Simeon. 
The  whole  question  then  becomes  one  of  degree.  Of  course 
no  individual  and  no  government  can  justifiably  propagate 
error  for  the  sake  of  propagating  error.  But  both  indi- 
viduals and  governments  must  work  with  such  machinery 
as  they  have ; and  no  human  machinery  is  to  be  found  which 
will  impart  truth  without  some  alloy  of  error.  We  have 
shown  irrefragably,  as  we  think,  that  the  Church  of  England 


GLADSTONE  ON  CHURCH  AND  STATE.  381 

does  not  afford  such  a machinery.  The  question  then  is  this* 
with  what  degree  of  imperfection  in  our  machinery  must  we 
put  up  ? And  to  this  question  we  do  not  see  how  any  gen- 
eral answer  can  be  given.  We  must  be  guided  by  circum- 
stances. It  would,  for  example,  be  very  criminal  in  a Pro- 
testant to  contribute  to  the  sending  of  Jesuit  missionaries 
among  a Protestant  population.  But  we  do  not  conceive 
that  a Protestant  would  be  to  blame  for  giving  assistance  to 
Jesuit  missionaries  who  might  be  engaged  in  converting  the 
Siamese  to  Christianity.  That  tares  are  mixed  with  the 
wheat  is  matter  of  regret ; but  it  is  better  that  wheat  and 
tares  should  grow  together  than  that  the  promise  of  the  year 
should  be  blighted. 

Mr.  Gladstone,  we  see,  with  deep  regret,  censures  the 
British  government  in  India  for  distributing  a small  sum 
among  the  Catholic  priests  who  minister  to  the  spiritual 
wants  of  our  Irish  soldiers.  Now,  let  us  put  a case  to  him. 
A Protestant  gentleman  is  attended  by  a Catholic  servant, 
in  a part  of  the  country  where  there  is  no  Catholic  congre- 
gation within  many  miles.  The  servant  is  taken  ill  and  is 
given  over.  He  desires,  in  great  trouble  of  mind,  to  receive 
the  last  sacraments  of  his  Church.  His  master  sends  off  a 
messenger  in  a chaise  and  four,  w7ith  orders  to  bring  a con- 
fessor from  a town  at  a considerable  distance.  Here  a Pro- 
testant lays  out  money  for  the  purpose  of  causing  religious 
instruction  and  consolation  to  be  given  by  a Catholic  priest. 
Has  he  committed  a sin  ? Has  he  not  acted  like  a good 
master  and  a good  Christian  ? Would  Mr.  Gladstone  accuse 
him  of  “ laxity  of  religious  principle,”  of  “ confounding 
t ruth  with  falsehood,”  of  “ considering  the  support  of  relig- 
ion as  a boon  to  an  individual,  not  as  a homage  to  truth?” 
But  how  if  this  servant  had,  for  the  sake  of  his  master, 
undertaken  a journey  which  removed  him  from  the  place 
where  he  might  easily  have  obtained  religious  attendance? 
How  if  his  death  were  occasioned  by  a wound  received  in 
defending  his  master?  Should  we  not  then  say  that  the 
master  had  only  fulfilled  a sacred  obligation  of  duty  ? Now, 
Mr.  Gladstone  himself  owns  that  “ nobody  can  think  that 
the  personality  of  the  state  is  more  stringent,  or  entails 
stronger  obligations,  than  that  of  the  individual.”  How  then 
stands  the  case  of  the  Indian  government  ? Here  is  a poor 
fellow,  enlisted  in  Clare  or  Kerry,  sent  over  fifteen  thousand 
miles  of  sea,  quartered  in  a depressing  and  pestilential  cli- 
mate. He  fights  for  the  government ; he  rs  for  it 


882  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

he  is  wounded ; he  is  laid  on  his  pallet,  withering  away  with 
fever,  under  that  terrible  sun,  without  a friend  near  him.  He 
pines  for  the  consolations  of  that  religion  which,  neglected 
perhaps  in  the  season  of  health  and  vigor,  now  comes  back  to  his 
mind,  associated  with  all  the  overpowering  recollections  of  his 
earlier  days,  and  of  the  home  which  lie  is  never  to  see  again. 
And  because  the  state  for  which  he  dies  sends  a priest  of  his 
own  faith  to  stand  at  his  bedside,  and  to  tell  him,  in  lan- 
guage which  at  once  commands  his  love  and  confidence,  of 
the  common  Father,  of  the  common  Redeemer,  of  the  com- 
mon hope  of  immortality,  because  the  state  for  which  he 
dies  does  not  abandon  him  in  his  last  moments  to  the  care 
of  heathen  attendants,  or  employ  a chaplain  of  a different 
creed  to  vex  his  departing  spirit  with  a controversy  about 
the  Council  of  Trent,  Mr.  Gladstone  finds  that  India  pre- 
sents “ a melancholy  picture,”  and  that  there  is  “ a large 
allowance  of  false  principle  ” in  the  system  pursued  there.  . 
Most  earnestly  do  we  hope  that  our  remarks  may  induce  ... 
Mr.  Gladstone  to  reconsider  this  part  of  his  work,  and  may 
prevent  him  from  expressing  in  that  high  assembly,  in  which 
he  must  always  be  heard  with  attention,  opinions  so  un- 
worthy of  his  character. 

We  have  now  said  almost  all  that  we  think  it* necessary 
to  say  respecting  Mr.  Gladstone’s  theory.  And  perhaps  it  ; 
would  be  safest  for  us  to  stop  here.  It  is  much  easier  to  : 
pull  down  than  to  build  up.  Yet,  that  we  may  give  Mr. 
Gladstone  his  revenge,  we  will  state  precisely  our  own  views 
respecting  the  alliance  of  Church  and  State. 

We  set  out  in  company  with  Warburton,  and  remain  /• 
with  him  pretty  sociably  till  we  come  to  his  contract ; a 
contract  which  Mr.  Gladstone  very  properly  designates  as  a 
fiction.  We  consider  the  primary  end  of  government  as  a 
purely  temporal  end,  the  protection  of  the  persons  and 
property  of  men. 

We  think  that  government,  like  every  other  contrivance 
of  human  wisdom,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest,  is  likely 
to  answer  its  main  end  best  when  it  is  constructed  with  a 
single  view  to  that  end.  Mr.  Gladstone,  who  loves  Plato, 
will  not  quarrel  with  us  for  illustrating  our  proposition,  after 
Plato’s  fashion,  from  the  most  familiar  objects.  Take  cut- 
lery, for  example.  A blade  which  is  designed  both  to  shave 
and  to  carve,  will  certainly  not  shave  so  well  as  a razor,  or 
carve  so  well  as  a carving-knife.  An  academy  of  painting, 
which  should  also  be  a bank,  would,  in  all  probability,  ex- 


GLADSTONE  ON  CHURCH  AND  STATE. 


888 


hi  bit  very  bad  pictures  and  discount  very  bad  bills,  A gas 
company,  which  should  also  be  an  infant  school  society, 
would,  we  apprehend,  light  the  streets  ill,  and  teach  the 
children  ill.  On  this  principle,  we  think  that  government 
should  be  organized  solely  with  a view  to  its  main  end ; and 
that  no  part  of  its  efficiency  for  that  end  should  be  sacrificed, 
in  order  to  promote  any  other  end  however  excellent. 

But  does  it  follow  from  thence  that  governments  ought 
never  to  pursue  any  end,  other  than  their  main  end?  In  no 
wise.  Though  it  is  desirable  that  every  institution  should 
have  a main  end,  and  should  be  so  formed  as  to  be  in  the 
highest  degree  efficient  for  that  main  end  ; yet  if,  without 
any  sacrifice  of  its  efficiency  for  that  end,  it  can  pursue  any 
other  good  end,  it  ought  to  do  so.  Thus,  the  end  for  which 
a hospital  is  built  is  the  relief  of  the  sick,  not  the  beautify- 
ing of  the  street.  To  sacrifice  the  health  of  the  sick  to 
splendor  of  architectural  effect,  to  place  the  building  in  a 
bad  air  only  that  it  may  present  a more  commanding  front 
to  a great  public  place,  to  make  the  wards  hotter  or  cooler 
than  they  ought  to  be,  in  order  that  the  columns  and  win- 
dows of  the  exterior  may  please  the  passers-by,  would  be 
monstrous.  But  if,  without  any  sacrifice  of  1 lie  chief  object, 
the  hospital  can  be  made  an  ornament  to  the  metropolis,  it 
would  be  absurd  not  to  make  it  so. 

In  the  same  manner,  if  a government  can,  without  any 
sacrifice  of  its  main  end,  promote  any  other  good  work,  it 
ought  to  do  so.  The  encouragement  of  the  fine  arts,  for 
example,  is  by  no  means  the  main  end  of  government ; and 
it  would  be  absurd,  in  constituting  a government,  to  bestow 
a thought  on  the  question,  whether  it  would  be  a govern- 
ment likely  to  train  Raphaels  and  Domenicliinos.  But  it  by 
no  means  follows  that  it  is  improper  for  a government  to 
form  a national  gallery  of  pictures.  The  same  may  be  said 
of  patronage  bestowed  on  learned  men,  of  the  publication 
of  archives,,  of  the  collecting  of  libraries,  menageries,  plants* 
fossils,  antiques,  of  journeys  and  voyages  for  purposes  of 
geographical  discovery  or  astronomical  observation.  It  is 
not  for  these  ends  that  government  is  constituted.  But  it 
may  well  happen  that  a government  may  have  at  its  com- 
mand resources  which  will  enable  it,  without  any  injury  to 
its  main  end,  to  pursue  these  collateral  ends  far  more  effec- 
tually than  any  individual  or  any  voluntary  association  could 
do.  If  so,  government  ought  to  pursue  these  collateral 
ends. 


S84 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


It  is  still  more  evidently  the  duty  of  government  to  pro- 
mote, always  in  subordination  to  its  main  end,  everything 
which  is  useful  as  a means  for  the  attaining  of  that  main 
end  The  improvement  of  steam  navigation,  for  example, 
is  by  no  means  a primary  object  of  government.  But  as 
steam  vessels  are  useful  for  the  purpose  of  national  defence, 
and  for  the  purpose  of  facilitating  intercourse  between 
distant  provinces,  and  of  thereby  consolidating  the  force 
of  the  empire,  it  may  be  the  bounden  duty  of  government 
to  encourage  ingenious  men  to  perfect  an  invention  which  so 
directly  tends  to  make  the  state  more  efficient  for  its  great 
primary  end. 

Now  on  both  these  grounds,  the  instruction  of  the  people 
may  with  propriety  engage  the  care  of  the  government. 
That  the  people  should  be  well  educated,  is  in  itself  a good 
thing;  and  the  state  ought  therefore  to  promote  this  object 
if  it  can  do  so  without  any  sacrifice  of  its  primary  object. 
The  education  of  the  people,  conducted  on  those  principles 
of  morality  which  are  common  to  all  the  forms  of  Christian- 
ity, is  highly  valuable  as  a means  of  promoting  the  main 
object  for  which  government  exists,  and  is  on  this  ground 
well  deserving  the  attention  of  rulers.  We  will  not  at 
present  go  into  the  general  question  of  education  ; but  will 
confine  our  remarks  to  the  subject  which  is  more  immediately 
before  us,  namely,  the  religious  instruction  of  the  people. 

W e may  illustrate  our  view  of  the  policy  which  govern- 
ments ought  to  pursue  with  respect  to  religious  instruction, 
by  recurring  to  the  analogy  of  a hospital.  Religious  instruc- 
tion is  not  the  main  end  for  which  a hospital  is  built ; and 
to  introduce  into  a hospital  any  regulations  prejudicial  to 
the  health  of  the  patients,  on  the  plea  of  promoting  their  - 
spiritual  improvement,  to  send  a ranting  preacher  to  a man 
who  has  just  been  ordered  by  the  physician  to  lie  quiet  and 
try  to  get  a little  sleep,  to  impose  a strict  observance  of  Lent 
on  a convalescent  who  has  been  advised  to  eat  heartiiy  of  | 
nourishing  food,  to  direct,  as  the  bigoted  Pius  the  Fifth 
actually  did,  that  no  medical  assistance  should  be  given  to 
any  person  who  declined  spiritual  attendance,  would  be  the  j 
most  extravagant  folly.  Yet  it  by  no  means  follows  that  it 
would  not  be  right  to  have  a chaplain  to  attend  the  sick,  and 
to  pay  such  a chaplain  out  of  the  hospital  funds.  Whether 
it  will  be  proper  to  have  such  a chaplain  at  all,  and  of  what 
religious  persuasion  such  a chaplain  ought  to  be,  must  depend  v 
on  circumstances.  There  may  be  a town  in  which  it  would 


GLADSTONE  ON  CHURCH  AND  STATE. 


885 


be  impossible  to  set  up  a good  hospital  without  the  help  of 
people  of  different  opinions  : and  religious  parties  may  run 
• so  high  that,  though  people  of  different  opinions  are  willing 
to  contribute  for  the  relief  of  the  sick,  they  will  not  concur 
in  the  choice  of  any  one  chaplain.  The  high  Churchmen  in- 
sist that,  if  there  is  a paid  chaplain,  he  shall  be  a high  Church- 
man. The  Evangelicals  stickle  for  an  Evangelical.  Here  it 
would  evidently  be  absurd  and  cruel  to  let  an  useful  and 
humane  design,  about  which  all  are  agreed,  fall  to  the  ground, 
because  all  cannot  agree  about  something  else.  The  governors 
must  either  appoint  two  chaplains,  and  pay  them  both  ; or 
they  must  appoint  none ; and  every  one  of  them  must,  in 
li is  individual  capacity,  do  what  he  can  for  the  purpose  of 
providing  the  sick  with  such  religious  instruction  and  con- 
solation as  will,  in  his  opinion,  be  most  useful  to  them. 

We  should  say  the  same  of  government.  Government 
is  not  an  institution  for  the  propagation  of  religion,  any 
more  than  St.  George’s  Hospital  is  an  institution  for  the 
propagation  of  religion  : and  the  most  absurd  and  pernicious 
consequences  would  follow,  if  Government  should  pursue, 
as  its  primary  end,  that  which  can  never  be  more  than  its 
secondary  end,  though  intrinsically  more  important  than 
its  primary  end.  But  a government  which  considers  the 
religious  instruction  of  the  people  as  a secondary  end,  and 
follows  out  that  principle  faithfully,  will,  we  think,  be  likely 
to  do  much  good  and  little  harm. 

We  will  rapidly  run  over  some  of  the  consequences  to 
which  this  principle  leads,  and  point  ont  how  it  solves  some 
problems  which,  on  Mr.  Gladstone’s  hypothesis,  admit  of  no 
satisfactory  solution. 

All  persecution  directed  against  the  persons  or  property 
of  men  is,  on  our  principle,  obviously  indefensible.  For, 
the  protection  of  the  persons  and  property  of  men  being 
the  primary  end  of  government,  and  religious  instruction 
only  a secondary  end,  to  secure  the  people  from  heresy  by 
making  their  lives,  their  limbs,  or  their  estates  insecure, 
would  be  to  sacrifice  the  primary  end  to  the  secondary  end. 
It  would  be  as  absurd  as  it  would  be  in  the  governors  of  a 
hospital  to  direct  that  the  wounds  of  all  Arian  and  Socin- 
ian  patients  should  be  dressed  in  such  a way  as  to  make 
them  fester. 

Again,  on  our  principles,  all  civil  disabilities  on  account, 
of  religious  opinions  are  indefensible.  For  all  such  disahib 
Ities  make  government  less  efficient  for  its  mmx  end ; the? 
V on*  1 1,4— *25 


386  Macaulay's  miscellaneous  writings. 

limit  its  choice  of  able  men  for  the  administration  and  de- 
fence of  the  state ; they  alienate  from  it  the  hearts  of  the 
sufferers  ; they  deprive  it  of  a part  of  its  effective  strength, 
in  all  contests  with  foreign  nations.  Such  a course  is  as 
absurd  as  it  would  be  in  the  governors  of  a hospital  to 
reject  an  able  surgeon  because  he  is  a Universal  Restitu- 
tionist,  and  to  send  a bungler  to  operate  because  he  is  per- 
fectly orthodox. 

Again,  on  our  principles,  no  government  ought  to  press 
on  the  people  religious  instruction,  however  sound,  in  such 
a manner  as  to  excite  among  them  discontents  dangerous 
to  public  order.  For  here  again  government  would  sacri- 
fice its  primary  end  to  an  end  intrinsically  indeed  of  the 
highest  importance,  but  still  only  a secondary  end  of  gov- 
ernment, as  government.  This  rule  as  once  disposes  of  the 
difficulty  of  which  Mr.  Gladstone  can  get  rid  only  by  put- 
ting in  an  imaginary  discharge  in  order  to  set  aside  an  im- 
aginary obligation.  There  is  assuredly  no  country  where  it 
is  more  desirable  that  Christianity  should  be  propagated. 
But  there  is  no  country  in  which  the  government  is  so  com- 
pletely disqualified  for  the  task.  By  using  our  power  in 
order  to  make  proselytes,  we  should  produce  the  dissolution 
of  society,  and  bring  utter  ruin  on  all  those  interests  for  the 
protection  of  which  government  exists.  Here  the  second-  j 
ary  end  is, tat  present,  inconsistent  with  the  primary  end, 
and  must  therefore  be  abandoned.  Christian  instruction 
given  by  individuals  and  voluntary  societies  may  do  much  } 
good.  Given  by  the  government  it  would  do  unmixed 
harm.  At  the  same  time,  we  quite  agree  with  Mr.  Gladstone  > 
in  thinking  that  the  English  authorities  in  India  ought  not 
to  participate  in  any  idolatrous  rite;  and  indeed  we  are  ~ 
fully  satisfied  that  all  such  participation  is  not  only  unchris- 
tian, but  also  unwise  and  most  undignified. 

Supposing  the  circumstances  of  a country  to  be  such, 
that  the  government  may  with  propriety,  on  our  principles,  : 
give  religious  instruction  to  a people;  we  have  next  to  in-  ' 
quire,  what  religion  shall  be  taught.  Bishop  Warburfon  \ 
answers,  the  religion  of  the  majority.  And  we  so  far  agree 
with  him,  that  we  can  scarcely  perceive  any  circumstances 
in  which  it  would  be  proper  to  establish,  as  the  one  exclusive 
religion  of  the  state,  the  religion  of  the  minority.  Such  a 
preference  could  hardly  be  given  without  exciting  most 
serious  discontent,  and  endangering  those  interests,  the  pro- 
tection of  which  is  the  first  object  of  government.  But  wa 


GLADSTONE  ON  CHITRCH  AND  STATE.  387 

never  can  admit  that  a ruler  can  be  justified  in  helping  to 
spread  a system  solely  because  that  system  is  pleasing  to 
the  majority.  On  the  other  hand,  we  cannot  agree  with 
Mr.  Gladstone,  who  would  of  course  answer  that  the  only 
religion  which  a ruler  ought  to  propagate  is  the  religion  of 
his  own  conscience.  In  truth,  this  is  an  impossibility.  And 
as  we  have  shown,  Mr.  Gladstone  himself,  whenever  ho 
supports  a grant  of  money  to  the  Church  of  England,  is 
really  assisting  to  propagate,  not  the  precise  religion  of  his 
own  conscience,  but  some  one  or  more,  he  knows  not  how 
many  or  which,  of  the  innumerable  religions  which  lie  be- 
tween the  confines  of  Pelagianism  and  those  of  Antinomian- 
ism,  and  between  the  confines  of  Popery  and  those  of  Pres- 
byterianism. In  our  opinion,  that  religious  instruction 
which  the  ruler  ought,  in  his  public  capacity,  to  patronize, 
is  the  instruction  from  which  he,  in  his  conscience,  believes 
that  the  people  will  learn  most  good  with  the  smallest 
mixture  of  evil.  He  will,  of  course,  believe  that  his  own 
religion  is  unmixedly  good.  But  the  question  which  he  has 
to  consider  is,  not  how  much  good  his  religion  contains,  but 
how  much  good  the  people  will  learn,  if  instruction  is  given 
to  them  in  that  religion.  He  may  prefer  the  doctrines  and 
government  of  the  Church  of  England  to  those  of  the  Church 
of  Scotland.  But  if  he  knows  that  a Scotch  congregation 
will  listen  with  deep  attention  and  respect  while  an  Erskine 
or  a Chalmers  sets  before  them  the  ^fundamental  doctrines 
of  Christianity,  and  that  a glimpse  of  a surplice  or  a single 
line  of  a liturgy  would  be  the  signal  for  hooting  and  riot, 
and  would  probably  bring  stools  and  brick-bats  about  the 
ears  of  the  minister,  he  acts  wisely  if  he  conveys  religious 
knowledge  to  the  Scotch  rather  by  means  of  that  imperfect 
Church,  as  he  may  think  it,  from  which  they  will  learn 
much,  than  by  means  of  that  perfect  Church  from  which 
they  will  learn  nothing.  The  only  end  of  teaching  is,  that 
men  may  learn ; and  it  is  idle  to  talk  of  the  duty  of  teaching 
truth  in  ways  which  only  cause  men  to  cling  more  firmly  to 
falsehood. 

> On  these  principles  we  conceive  that  a statesman,  who 
might  be  far  indeed  from  regarding  the  Church  of  England 
with  the  reverence  which  Mr.  Gladstone  feels  for  her,  might 
yet  firmly  oppose  all  attempts  to  destroy  her.  Such  a 
statesman  may  be  too  wrell  acquainted  with  her  origin  to 
look  upon  her  with  superstitious  awe.  He  may  know  that 
she  sprang  from  a compromise  huddled  up  between  the 


888  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

eager  zeal  of  reformers  and  the  selfishness  of  greedy,  am 
bitious,  and  time-serving  politicians.  He  may  find  in  every 
page  of  her  annals  ample  cause  for  censure.  Pie  may  feel 
that  he  could  not,  with  ease  to  his  conscience,  subscribe  all 
her  articles.  He  may  regret  that  all  the  attempts  which 
have  been  made  to  open  her  gates  to  large  classes  of  non- 
conformists should  have  failed.  Her  episcopal  polity  he 
may  consider  as  of  purely  human  institution.  He  cannot  de- 
fend her  on  the  ground  that  she  possesses  the  apostolical 
succession ; for  he  does  not  know  whether  that  succession 
may  not  be  altogether  a fable.  He  cannot  defend  her  on 
the  ground  of  her  unity;  for  he  knows  that  her  frontier 
sects  are  much  more  remote  from  each  other,  than  one  fron- 
tier is  from  the  Church  of  Rome,  or  the  other  from  the 
Church  of  Geneva.  But  lie  may  think  that  she  teaches 
more  truth  with  less  alloy  of  error  than  would  be  taught  by 
those  who,  if  she  were  swept  away,  would  occupy  the  va- 
cant space.  He  may  think  that  the  effect  produced  by  her 
beautiful  services  and  by  her  pulpits  on  the  national  mind, 
is,  on  the  whole,  highly  beneficial.  He  may  think  that  her 
civilizing  influence  is  usefully  felt  in  remote  districts.  He 
may  think  that,  if  she  were  destroyed,  a large  portion  of 
those  who  now  compose  her  congregations  would  neglect 
all  religious  duties,  and  that  a still  larger  portion  would  fall 
under  the  influence  of  spiritual  mountebanks,  hungry  for 
gain,  or  drunk  wTitli  fanaticism.  While  he  would  with  pleas- 
ure admit  that  all  the  qualities  of  Christian  pastors  are  to  be 
found  in  large  measure  within  the  existing  body  of  Dissent- 
ing ministers,  he  would  perhaps  be  inclined  to  think  that 
the  standard  of  intellectual  and  moral  character  among  that 
exemplary  class  of  men  may  have  been  raised  to  its  present 
high  point  and  maintained  there  by  the  indirect  influence 
of  the  Establishment.  And  he  may  be  by  no  means  satis- 
fied that,  if  the  Church  were,  at  once  swept  away,  the  place 
of  our  Sumners  and  Whateleys  would  be  supplied  by  Dod- 
dridges  and  Halls.  He  may  think  that  the  advantages 
which  we  have  described  are  obtained,  or  might,  if  the  ex- 
isting system  were  slightly  modified,  be  obtained,  without 
any  sacrifice  of  the  paramount  objects  which  all  governments 
ought  to  have  chiefly  in  view.  Nay,  he  may  be  of  opinion 
that  an  institution,  so  deeplv  fixed  in  the  hearts  and  minds 
of  millions,  could  not  be  subverted  without  loosening  and 
shaking  all  the  foundations  of  civil  society.  With  at  least 
equal  ease  he  would  find  reasons  for  supporting  the  Church 


&UAI3ST0KE  OK  CHURCH  AKD  STATS.  889 

of  Scotland.  Nor  would  he  be  under  the  necessity  of  resort- 
ing to  any  contract  to  justify  the  connection  of  two  religious 
establishments  with  one  government.  He  would  think 
scruples  on  that  head  frivolous  in  any  person  who  is  zealous 
for  a Church,  of  which  both  Dr.  Herbert  Marsh  and  Dr. 
Daniel  Wilson  have  been  bishops.  Indeed  he  would  gladly 
follow  out  his  principles  much  further.  He  would  have 
been  willing  to  vote  in  1825  for  Lord  Francis  Egerton’s 
resolution,  that  it  is  expedient  to  give  a public  maintenance 
to  the  Catholic  clergy  of  Ireland:  and  he  woul#l  deeply  re- 
gret that  no  such  measure  was  adopted  in  1829. 

In  this  way,  we  conceive,  a statesman  might  on  our 
principles  satisfy  himself  that  it  would  be  in  the  highest  de- 
gree inexpedient  to  abolish  the  Churchy  either  of  England 
or  of  Scotland. 

But  if  there  were,  in  any  part  of  the  world,  a national 
church  regarded  as  heretical  by  four-fifths  of  the  nation 
committed  to  its  care,  a church  established  and  maintained 
by  the  sword,  a church  producing  twice  as  many  riots  as 
conversions,  a church  which,  though  possessing  great  wealth 
and  power,  and  though  long  backed  by  persecuting  laws, 
had,  in  the  course  of  many  generations,  been  found  unable 
to  propagate  its  doctrines,  and  barely  able  to  maintain  its 
ground,  a church  so  odious,  that  fraud  and  violence,  when 
used  against  its  clear  rights  of  property,  were  generally  re- 
garded as  fair  play,  a church,  whose  ministers  were  preach- 
ing to  desolate  walls,  and  with  difficulty  obtaining  their 
lawful  subsistence  by  the  help  of  bayonets,  such  a church, 
on  our  principles,  could  not,  we  must  own,  be  defended. 
We  should  say  that  the  state  which  allied  itself  with  such  a 
church  postponed  the  primary  end  of  government  to  the 
secondary : and  that  the  consequences  had  been  such  as 
any  sagacious  observer  would  have  predicted.  Neither  the 
primary  nor  the  secondary  end  is  attained.  The  temporal 
and  spiritual  interests  of  the  people  suffer  alike.  The 
minds  of  men,  instead  of  being  drawn  to  the  church,  are 
alienated  from  the  state.  The  magistrate,  after  sacrificing 
order,  peace,  union,  all  the  interests  which  it  is  his  first 
duty  to  protect,  for  the  purpose  of  promoting  pure  religion, 
is  forced,  after  the  experience  of  centuries,  to  admit  that  he 
has  really  been  promoting  error.  The  sounder  the  doctrines 
of  such  a church,  the  more  absurd  and  noxious  the  supersti- 
tion by  which  those  doctrines  are  opposed,  the  stronger  are 
the  arguments  against  the  policy  which  has  deprived  a good 


890  MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

cause  of  its  natural  advantages.  Those  who  preach  to 
rulers  the  duty  of  employing  power  to  propagate  truth 
would  do  well  to  remember  that  falsehood,  though  no  match 
for  truth  alone,  has  often  been  found  more  than  a match  for 
truth  and  power  together. 

A statesman,  judging  on  our  principles,  would  pronounce 
without  hesitation  that  a church  such  as  we  have  last  de- 
scribed, never  ought  to  have  been  set  up.  Further  than  this 
we  will  not  venture  to  speak  for  him.  He  would  doubt- 
less remember  that  the  world  is  full  of  institutions  which, 
though  they  never  ought  to  have  been  set  up,  yet,,  having 
been  set  up  ought  to  be  rudely  pulled  down  ; and  that  is 
often  wise  in  practice  to  be  content  with  the  mitigation  of  an 
abuse  which,  looking  at  it  in  the  abstract,  we  might  feel  im- 
patient to  destroy. 

We  have  done;  and  nothing  remains  but  that  we  part 
from  Mr.  Gladstone  with  the  courtesy  of  antagonists  who 
bear  no  malice.  We  dissent  from  his  opinions,  but  we  ad- 
mire his  talents ; we  respect  his  integrity  and  benevolence  ; 
and  we  hope  that  he  will  not  suffer  political  avocations  so 
entirely  to  engross  him  as  to  leave  him  no  leisure  for  lit- 
erature and  philosophy. 


LORD  CLIVE.* 

(. Edinburgh  Review , January , 1840.) 

We  have  always  thought  it  strange,  that  while  the  his- 
tory of  the  Spanish  empire  in  America  is  familiarly  known 
to  all  the  nations  of  Europe,  the  great  actions  of  our  coun- 
trymen in  the  East  should,  even  among  ourselves,  excite 
little  interest.  Every  schoolboy  knows  who  imprisoned 
Montezuma,  and  who  strangled  Ataliualpa.  But  we  doubt 
whether  one  in  ten,  even  among  English  gentlemen  of  highly 
cultivated  minds,  can  tell  who  won  the  battle  of  Buxar,  who 
perpetrated  the  massacre  of  Panta,  whether  Sujah  Dowlah 
ruled  in  Oude  or  in  Travancore,  or  whether  Ilolkar  was  a 
Hindoo  or  a Mussulman.  Yet  the  victories  of  Cortes  wero 

* The  Life  of  Robert  Lord  Clive ; collected  from  the  Family  Papers , communi- 
cated by  the  Earl  of  Fowls.  By  Major-General  Sir  John  Malcolm,  K.C.B. 
8 yoIb.  8vo.  London  : 1886. 


LORD  CLIVE. 


391 


gained  over  savages  who  had  no  letters,  who  were  ignorant  of 
the  use  of  metals,  who  had  not  broken  in  a single  animal  to 
labor,  who  wielded  no  better  weapons  than  those  which  could 
be  made  out  of  sticks,  flints  and  fish-bones,  who  regard  a horse- 
soldier  as  a monster,  half  man  and  half  beast,  who  took  a 
harquebusier  for  a sorcerer,  able  to  scatter  the  thunder  and 
lightning  of  the  skies.  The  people  of  India,  when  we  sub- 
dued them,  were  ten  times  as  numerous  as  the  Americans 
whom  the  Spaniards  vanquished,  and  were  at  the  same  time 
quite  as  highly  civilized  as  the  victorious  Spaniards.  They 
had  reared  cities  larger  and  fairer  than  Saragossa  or  Toledo, 
and  buildings  more  beautiful  and  costly  than  the  cathedral  of 
Seville.  They  could  show  bankers  richer  than  the  richest 
firms  of  Barcelona  or  Cadiz,  viceroys  whose  splendor  far 
surpassed  that  of  Ferdinand  the  Catholic,  myriads  of  cav- 
alry and  long  trains  of  artillery  which  would  have  astonished 
the  Great  Captain.  It  might  have  been  expected,  that 
every  Englishman  who  takes  any  interest  in  any  part  of  his- 
tory would  be  curious  to  know  how  a handful  of  his  country- 
men, separated  from  their  home  by  an  immense  ocean,  sub- 
jugated, in  the  course  of  a few  years,  one  of  the  greatest 
- empires  in  the  world.  Yet,  unless  we  greatly  err,  his  sub- 
ject is  to  most  readers,  not  only  insipid,  but  positively  dis- 
tasteful. 

Perhaps  the  fault  lies  partly' with  the  historians.  Mr. 
Mill’s  book,  though  it  has  undoubtedly  great  and  rare  merit, 
is  not  sufficiently  animated  and  picturesque  to  attract  those 
who  read  for  amusement.  Orme,  inferior  to  no  English 
historian  in  style  and  power  of  painting,  is  minute  even  to 
tediousness.  In  one  volume  he  allots,  on  an  average,  a closely 
printed  quarto  page  to  the  events  of  every  forty-eight  hours. 
The  consequence  is,  that  his  narrative,  though  one  of  the 
most  authentic  and  one  of  the  most  finely  written  in  our 
language,  has  never  been  very  popular,  and  is  now  scarcely 
ever  read. 

We  fear  that  the  volumes  betore  us  will  not  much  at- 
tract those  readers  whom  Orme  and  Mill  have  repelled. 
The  materials  placed  at  the  disposal  of  Sir  John  Malcolm 
by  the  late  Lord  Powis  were  indeed  of  great  value.  But  we 
cannot  say  that  they  have  been  very  skilfully  worked  up. 
It  would,  however,  be  unjust  to  criticize  with  severity  a 
work  which,  if  the  author  had  lived  to  complete  and  revise 
it,  would  probably  have  been  improved  by  condensation  and 
by  a better  arrangement.  We  are  the  more  disposed  to  per- 


S92  macatjlay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

form  the  pleasing  duty  of  expressing  our  gratitude  to  tho 
noble  family  to  which  the  public  owes  so  much  useful  and 
curious  information. 

The  effect  of  the  book,  even  when  me  make  the  largest 
■allowance  for  the  partiality  of  those  who  have  furnished  and 
of  those  who  have  digested  the  materials,  is,  on  the  whole, 
greatly  to  raise  the  character  of  Lord  Clive.  W e are  far 
indeed  from  spmpatliizing  with  Sir  John  Malcolm,  whose 
love  passes  the  love  of  biographers,  and  who  can  see  nothing 
but  wisdom  and  justice  in  the  actions  of  his  idol.  But  we 
are  at  least  equally  far  from  concurring  in  the  severe  judgment 
of  Mr.  Mill,  who  seems  to  us  to  show  less  discrimination  in 
his  account  of  Clive  than  in  any  other  part  of  his  valuable 
work.  Clive,  like  most  men  who  are  born  with  strong 
passions  and  tried  by  strong  temptations,  committed  great 
faults.  But  every  person  who  takes  a fair  and  enlightened 
view  of  his  whole  carreer  must  admit  that  our  island,  so 
fertile  in  heroes  and  statesmen,  has  scarcely  ever  produced 
a man  more  truly  great  either  in  arms  or  in  council. 

The  Clines  had  been  settled,  ever  since  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury, on  an  estate  of  no  great  value,  near  Market-Drayton 
in  Shropshire.  In  the  reign  of  George  the  First  this  mod- 
erate but  ancient  inheritance  was  possessed  by  Mr.  Richard 
Clive,  who  seems  to  have  been  a plain  man  of  no  great  tact 
or  capacity.  He  had  been  bred  to  the  law,  and  divided 
his  time  between  professional  business  and  the  avocations 
of  a small  proprietor.  He  married  a lady  from  Manchester, 
of  the  name  of  Gaskill,  and  became  the  father  of  a very 
numerous  family.  His  eldest  son,  Robert,  the  founder  of  the 
British  empire  in  India,  was  born  at  the  old  seat  of  his  an- 
cestors on  the  twenty-ninth  of  September,  1725. 

Some  lineaments  of  the  character  of  the  man  were  early 
discerned  in  the  child.  There  remain  letters  written  by  his 
relations  when  he  was  in  his  seventh  year;  and  from  these 
letters  it  appears  that,  even  at  that  early  age,  his  strong  will 
and  his  fiery  passions,  sustained  by  a constitutional  intrepid- 
ity which  sometimes  seemed  hardly  compatible  with  sound- 
ness of  mind,  had  begun  to  cause  great  uneasiness  to  his 
family.  “ Fighting,”  says  one  of  his  uncles,  “ to  which  he  is 
out  of  measure  addicted,  gives  his  temper  such  a fierceness 
and  imperiousness,  that  he  flies  out  on  every  trifling  occasion.” 
The  old  people  of  the  neighborhood  still  remember  to  have 
heard  from  their  parents  how  Bob  Clive  climbed  to  the  top 
q\  the  lofty  steeple  of  Market-Braytou?  and  with  whM  terro? 


LORD  CLIVjS, 


393 

the  inhabitants  saw  him  seated  on  a stone  spout  near  the 
summit.  They  also  relate  how  he  formed  all  the  idle  lads 
of  the  town  into  a kind  of  predatory  army,  and  compelled 
the  shopkeepers  to  submit  to  a tribute  of  apples  and  half- 
pence, in  consideration  of  which  he  guaranteed  the  security 
of  their  windows.  He  was  sent  from  school  to  school, 
making  very  little  progress  in  his  learning,  and  gaining  for 
himself  everywhere  the  character  of  an  exceedingly  naughty 
boy.  One  of  his  masters,  it  is  said,  was  sagacious  enough  to 
prophesy  that  the  idle  lad  would  make  a great  figure  in  the 
world.  But  the  general  opinion  seems  to  have  been  that  poor 
Robert  was  a dunce,  if  not  a reprobate.  His  family  expected 
nothing  good  from  such  slender  parts  and  such  a headstrong 
temper.  It  is  not  strange,  therefore,  that  they  gladly  ac- 
cepted for  him,  when  he  was  in  his  eighteenth  year,  a writer- 
ship  in  the  service  of  the  East  India  Company,  and  shipped 
him  off  to  make  a fortune  or  to  die  of  a fever  at  Madras. 

Far  different  were  the  prospects  of  Clive  from  those  of 
the  youths  whom  the  East  India  College  now  annually  sends 
to  the  Presidencies  of  our  Asiatic  empire.  The  Company 
was  then  purely  a trading  corporation.  Its  territory  con- 
sisted of  a few  square  miles,  for  which  rent  was  paid  to  the 
native  governments.  Its  troops  were  scarcely  numerous 
enough  to  man  the  batteries  of  three  or  four  ill-constructed 
forts,  which  had  been  erected  for  the  protection  of  the  ware- 
houses.  The  natives,  wrho  composed  a considerable  part  of 
these  little  garrisons,  had  not  yet  been  trained  in  the  disci- 
pline of  Europe,  and  were  armed,  some  with  swords  and 
shields,  some  with  bows  and  arrows.  The  business  of  the 
servant  of  the  Company  was  not,  as  now,  to  conduct  the  ju- 
dicial, financial,  and  diplomatic  business  of  a great  country, 
but  to  take  stock,  to  make  advances  to  weavers,  to  ship  car- 
goes, and  above  all,  to  keep  an  eye  on  private  traders  who 
dared  to  infringe  the  monopoly.  The  younger  clerks  were 
so  miserably  paid  that  they  could  scarcely  subsist  without 
incurring  debt ; the  elder  enriched  themselves  by  trading  on 
their  own  account ; and  those  wrho  lived  to  rise  to  the  top 
of  the  service  often  accumulated  considerable  fortunes. 

Madras,  to  which  Clive  had  been  appointed,  was,  at  this 
time,  perhaps,  the  first  in  importance  of  the  Company’s  set- 
tlements. In  the  preceding  century  Fort  St.  George  had 
risen  on  a barren  spot  beaten  by  a raging  surf ; and  in  the 
neighborhood  a town,  inhabited  by  many  thousands  of 
natives,  had  sprung  up,  as  towns  spring  up  in  the  East,  with 


394  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

the  rapidity  of  the  prophet’s  gourd.  There  were  already  in 
the  suburbs  many  white  villas,  each  surrounded  by  its  gar- 
den, whither  the  wealthy  agents  of  the  Company  retired, 
after  the  labors  of  the  desk  and  the  warehouse,  to  enjoy  the 
cool  breeze  which  springs  up  at  sunset  from  the  Bay  of  Ben- 
gal. The  habits  of  these  mercantile  grandees  appear  to 
have  been  more  profuse,  luxurious,  and  ostentatious,  than 
those  of  the  high  judicial  and  political  functionaries  who 
have  succeeded  them.  But  comfort  was  far  less  understood. 
Many  devices  which  now  mitigate  the  heat  of  the  climate, 
preserve  health,  and  prolong  life,  were  unknown.  There 
was  far  less  intercourse  with  Europe  than  at  present.  The 
voyage  by  the  Cape,  w^hich  in  our  time  has  often  been  per- 
formed within  three  months,  was  then  very  seldom  accom- 
plished in  six,  and  sometimes  protracted  to  more  than  a 
year.  Consequently,  the  Anglo-Indian  was  then  much  more 
estranged  from  his  country,  much  more  addicted  to  Oriental 
usages,  and  much  less  fitted  to  mix  in  society  after  his  return 
to  Europe,  than  the  Anglo-Indian  of  the  present  day. 

Within  the  fort  and  its  precinct,  the  English  exercised, 
by  permission  of  the  native  government,  an  extensive  au- 
thority, such  as  every  great  Indian  land-owner  exercised 
within  his  own  domain.  But  they  had  never  dreamed  of 
claiming  independent  power.  The  surrounding  country 
was  ruled  by  the  Nabob  of  the  Carnatic,  a deputy  of  the 
Viceroy  of  the  Deccan,  commonly  called  the  Nizam,  who  was 
himself  only  a deputy  of  the  mighty  prince  designated  by 
our  ancestors  as  the  Great  Mogul.  Those  names,  once  so 
august  and  formidable,  still  remain.  There  is  still  a Nabob 
of  the  Carnatic,  who  lives  on  a pension  allowed  to  him  by 
the  English  out  of  the  revenues  of  the  province  which  his 
ancestors  ruled.  There  is  still  a Nizam,  whose  capital  is 
overawed  by  a British  cantonment,  and  to  whom  a British 
resident  gives,  under  the  name  of  advice,  commands  which 
are  not  to  be  disputed.  There  is  still  a Mogul,  who  is  per- 
mitted to  play  at  holding  courts,  and  receiving  petitions,  but 
who  has  less  power  to  help  or  hurt  than  the  youngest  civil 
servant  of  the  Company. 

Clive’s  voyage  was  unusually  tedious  even  for  that  age. 
The  ship  remained  some  months  at  the  Brazils,  where  the 
young  adventurer  picked  up  some  knowledge  of  Portuguese, 
and  spent  all  his  pocket-money.  He  did  not  arrive  in  India 
till  more  than  a yeai  after  he  had  left  England.  His  situa- v 
lion  at  Madras  was  most  painful.  His  funds  were  exhausted 


LORD  CLIYE. 


895 


His  pay  was  small.  He  had  contracted  debts.  He  was 
wretchedly  lodged,  no  small  calamity  in  a climate  which 
can  be  made  tolerable  to  an  European  only  by  spacious  and 
well  placed  apartments.  He  had  been  furnished  with  letters 
of  recommendation  to  a gentleman  who  might  have  assisted 
him  ; but  when  he  landed  at  Fort  St.  George  he  found  that 
this  gentleman  had  sailed  for  England.  The  lad’s  shy  and 
haughty  disposition  withheld  him  from  introducing  himself 
to  strangers.  He  was  several  months  in  India  before  he  be- 
came acquainted  with  a single  family.  The  climate  affected 
his  health  and  spirits.  His  duties  were  of  a kind  ill  suited 
to  his  ardent  and  daring  character.  He  pined  for  his  home, 
and  his  letters  to  his  relations  expressed  his  feelings  in  lan- 
guage softer  and  more  pensive  than  we  should  have  expected 
either  from  the  waywardness  of  his  boyhood,  or  from  the 
inflexible  sternness  of  his  later  years.  “ I have  not  enjoyed,” 
says  he,  “ one  happy  day  since  I left  my  native  country ; ” 
and  again,  “ I must  confess,  at  intervals,  when  I think  of 
my  dear  native  England,  it  affects  me  in  a very  particular 
manner.  * * * Jf  J should  be  so  far  blest  as  to  revisit 

again  my  own  country,  but  more  especially  Manchester,  the 
centre  of  all  my  wishes,  all  that  I could  hope  or  desire  for 
would  be  presented  before  me  in  one  view.” 

One  solace  he  found  of  the  most  respectable  kind.  The 
Governor  possessed  a good  library,  and  permitted  Clive  to 
have  access  to  it.  The  young  man  devoted  much  of  his 
leisure  to  reading,  and  acquired  at  this  time  almost  all  the 
knowledge  of  books  that  he  ever  possessed.  As  a boy  he 
had  been  too  idle,  as  a man  he  soon  became  too  busy,  for 
literary  pursuit. 

But  neither  climate  nor  poverty,  neither  study  nor  the 
sorrows  of  a home-sick  exile,  could  tame  the  desperate  au- 
dacity of  his  spirit.  He  behaved  to  his  official  superiors  as 
he  had  behaved  to  his  school-masters,  and  was  several  times 
in  danger  of  losing  his  situation.  Twice,  while  residing  in 
the  Writers’  Building,  he  attempted  to  destroy  himself; 
and  twice  the  pistol  which  he  snapped  at  his  own  head  failed 
to  gto  off.  This  circumstance,  it  is  said,  affected  him  as  a 
similar  escape  affected  Wallenstein.  After  satisfying  him- 
self that  the  pistol  was  really  well  loaded,  he  burst  forth  into 
an  exclamation  that  surely  he  was  reserved  for  something 
great. 

About  this  time  an  event  which  at  first  seemed  likely  to 
destroy  all  his  hopes  .in  life  suddenly  opened  before  him  a 


396  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

new  path  to  eminence.  Europe  had  been,  during  some 
years,  distracted  by  the  war  of  the  Austrian  succession. 
George  the  Second  was  the  steady  ally  of  Maria  Theresa* 
The  house  of  Bourbon  took  the  opposite  side.  Though 
England  was  even  then  the  first  of  maritime  powers,  she  was 
not,  as  she  lias  since  become,  more  than  a match  on  the  sea 
for  all  the  nations  of  the  world  together  ; and  she  found  it 
difficult  to  maintain  a contest  against  the  united  navies  of 
France  and  Spain.  In  the  eastern  seas  France  obtained  the 
ascendency.  Labourdonnais,  governor  of  Mauritius,  a man 
of  eminent  talents  and  virtues,  conducted  an  expedition  to 
the  continent  of  India  in  spite  of  the  opposition  of  the  Brit- 
ish fleet,  landed,  assembled  an  army,  appeared  before  Ma- 
dras, and  compelled  the  town  and  fort  to  capitulate.  The 
keys  were  delivered  up ; the  French  colors  were  displayed 
on  Fort  St.  George;  and  the  ^contents  of  the  Companyvs 
warehouses  were  seized  as  prize  of  war  by  the  conquerors. 
It  was  stipulated  by  the  capitulation  that  the  English  in- 
habitants should  be  prisoners  of  war  on  parole,  and  that 
the  town  should  remain  in  the  hands  of  the  French  till 
it  should  be  ransomed.  Labourdonnais  pledged  his  honor 
that  only  a moderate  ransom  .should  be  required. 

But  the  success  of  Labourdonnais  had  awakened  the 
jealousy  of  his  countryman,  Dupleix,  governor  of  Pondi- 
• cherry.  Dupleix,  moreover,  had  already  begun  to  revolve 
gigantic  schemes,  with  which  the  restoration  of  Madras  to 
the  English  was  by  no  means  compatible.  He  declared  that 
Labourdonnais  had  gone  beyond  his  powers;  that  conquests 
made  by  the  French  arms  on  the  continent  of  India  were 
at  the  disposal  of  the  governor  of  Pondicherry  alone,  and 
that  Madras  should  be  razed  to  the  ground.  Labourdonnais 
was  compelled  to  yield.  The  anger  which  the  breach  of 
the  capitulation  excited  among  the  English,  was  increased 
by  the  ungenerous  manner  in  which  Dupleix  treated  the 
principal  servants  of  the  Company.  The  Governor  and  sev- 
eral of  the  first  gentlemen  of  Fort  St.  George  were  carried 
under  a guard  to  Pondicherry,  and  conducted  through  the 
town  in  a triumphal  procession,  under  the  eyes  of  fifty  thou- 
sand spectators.  It  was  with  reason  thought  that  this  gross 
violation  of  public  faith  absolved  the  inhabitants  of  Madras 
from  the  engagements  into  which  they  had  entered  with 
Labourdonnais.  Clive  fled  from  the  town  by  night  in  the 
disguise  of  a mussulman,  and  took  refuge  at  Fort  St.  David, 
one  of  the  small  English  settlements  subordinate  to  Madras. 


LORD  CLIVE. 


397 


The  circumstances  in  which  he  was  now  placed  natur* 
ally  lead  him  to  adopt  a profession  better  suited  to  his  reck- 
less  and  intrepid  spirit  than  the  business  of  examining  pack- 
ages and  casting  accounts.  He  solicited  and  obtained  an 
ensign’s  commission  in  the  service  of  the  Company,  and  at 
twenty-one  entered  on  his  military  career.  His  personal 
courage,  of  which  he  had,  while  still  a writer,  given  signal 
proof  by  a desperate  duel  with  a military  bully,  who  was 
the  terror  of  Fort  St.  David,  speedily  made  him  conspicu- 
ous even  among  hundreds  of  brave  men.  He  soon  began  to 
show  in  his  new  calling  other  qualities  which  had  not  before 
been  discerned  in  him,  judgment,  sagacity,  deference  to  le- 
gitimate authority.  He  distinguished  himself  highly  in 
several  operations  against  the  French,  and  was  particularly 
noticed  by  Major  Lawrence,  who  was  then  considered  as 
the  ablest  British  officer  in  India. 

Clive  had  been  only  a few  months  in  the  army  when  in- 
telligence arrived  that  peace  had  been  concluded  between 
Great  Britain  and  France.  Dupleix  was  in  consequence 
compelled  to  restore  Madras  to  the  English  Company ; and 
the  young  ensign  was  at  liberty  to  resume  his  former  busi- 
ness. He  did  indeed  return  for  a short  time  to  his  desk. 
He  again  quitted  it  in  order  to  assist  Major  Lawrence  in 
some  petty  hostilities  with  the  natives,  and  then  again  re- 
turned to  it.  While  he  was  thus  wavering  between  a mili- 
tary and  a commercial  life,  events  took  place  which  decided 
his  choice.  The  politics  of  India  assumed  a new  aspect. 
There  was  peace  between  the  English  and  French  Crowns; 
but  there  arose  between  the  English  and  F rench  Companies 
trading  to  the  East  a war  most  eventful  and  important,  a 
war  in  which  the  prize  was  nothing  less  than  the  magnificent 
inheritance  of  the  house  of  Tamerlane. 

The  empire  which  Baber  and  his  Moguls  reared  in  the 
sixteenth  century  was  long  one  of  the  most  extensive  and 
splendid  in  the  world.  In  no  European  kingdom  was  so 
large  a population  subject  to  a single  prince,  or  so  large  a 
revenue  poured  into  the  Treasury.  The  beauty  and  mag- 
nificence of  the  buildings  erected  by  the  sovereigns  of  Ilin- 
dostan  amazed  even  travellers  who  had  seen  St.  Peter’s.  The 
innumerable  retinues  and  gorgeous  decorations  which  sur- 
rounded the  throne  of  Delhi  dazzled  even  eves  which  were 
accustomed  to  the  pomp  of  Versailles.  Some  of  the  great 
viceroys  who  held  their  posts  by  virtue  of  commissions 
from  the  Mogul  ruled  as  many  subjects  as  the  King  of  France 


398 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  waitings. 


or  the  Emperor  of  Germany.  Even  the  deputies  of  these 
deputies  might  well  rank,  as  to  extent  of  territory  and 
amount  of  revenue,  with  the  Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany  or  the 
Elector  of  Saxony. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  this  great  empire,  power- 
ful and  prosperous  as  it  appears  on  a superficial  view,  was 
ye'.,  even  in  its  best  days,  far  worse  governed  than  the  worst 
governed  parts  of  Europe  now  are.  The  administration 
was  tainted  with  all  the  vices  of  Oriental  despotism,  and 
with  all  the  vices  inseparable  from  the  domination  of  race 
over  race.  The  conflicting  pretensions  of  the  princes  of  the 
royal  house  produced  a long  series  of  crimes  and  public  dis- 
asters. Ambitious  lieutenants  of  the  sovereign  sometimes 
aspired  to  independence.  Fierce  tribes  of  Hindoos,  impa- 
tient of  a foreign  yoke,  frequently  withheld  tribute,  repelled 
the  armies  of  the  government  from  the  mountain  fastnesses, 
and  poured  down  in  arms  on  the*  cultivated  plains.  In  spite, 
however,  of  much  constant  maladministration,  in  spite  of 
occasional  convulsions  which  shook  the  whole  frame  of  so- 
ciety, this  great  monarchy,  on  the  whole,  retained,  during 
some  generations,  an  outward  appearance  of  unity,  majesty, 
and  energy.  But,  throughout  the  long  reign  of  Aurung- 
zebe,  the  state,  notwithstanding  all  that  the  vigor  and  policy 
of  the  prince  could  effect,  was  hastening  to  dissolution. 
After  his  death,  which  took  place  in  the  year  1707,  the  ruin 
was  fearfully  rapid.  Violent  shocks  from  without  co-oper- 
ated with  an  incurable  decay  which  was  fast  proceeding 
within  ; and  in  a few  years  the  empire  had  undergone  utter 
decomposition. 

The  history  of  the  successors* of  Theodosius  bears  no 
small  analogy  to  that  of  the  successors  of  Aurungzebe. 
But  perhaps  the  fall  of  the  Carlovingians  furnishes  the 
nearest  parallel  to  the  fall  of  the  Moguls.  Charlemagne 
was  scarcely  interred  when  the  imbecility  and  the  disputes 
of  his  decendants  began  to  bring  contempt  on  themselves 
and  destruction  on  their  subjects.  The  wide  dominion  of 
the  Franks  was  severed  into  a thousand  pieces.  Nothing 
more  than  a nominal  dignity  was  left  to  the  abject  heirs  of 
an  illustrious  name,  Charles  the  Bald,  and  Charles  the  Fat, 
and  Charles  the  Simple.  Fierce  invaders,  differing  from 
each  other  in  race,  language,  and  religion,  flocked,  as  if  by 
concert,  from  the  farthest  corners  of  the  earth,  to  punder 
provinces  which  the  government  could  no  longer  defend. 
The  pirates  of  the  Northern  Sea  extended  their  ravages 


LORD  CLIVE. 


399 


from  the  Elbe  to  the  Pyrenees,  and  at  length  fixed  their  seat 
in  the  rich  valley  of  the  Seine.  The  Hungarian,  in  whom 
the  trembling  monks  fancied  that  they  recognized  the  Gog 
or  Magog  of  prophecy,  carried  back  the  plunder  of  the  cities 
of  Lombardy  to  the  depths  of  the  Pannonian  forests. 
The  Saracen  ruled  in  Sicily,  desolated  the  fertile  plains  of 
Campania,  and  spread  terror  even  to  the  walls  of  Rome.  In 
the  midst  of  these  sufferings,  a great  internal  change  passed 
upon  the  empire.  The  corruption  of  death  began  to  fer- 
ment into  new  forms  of  life.  While  the  great  body,  as  a 
whole,  was  torpid  and  passive,  every  separate  member  be- 
gan to  feel  with  sense,  and  to  move  with  an  energy  all  its 
own.  Just  here,  in  the  most  barren  and  dreary  tract  of 
European  history,  all  feudal  privileges,  all  modern  nobility, 
take  their  source.  It  is  to  this  point  that  we  trace  the  powrer 
of  those  princes  who,  nominally  vassals,  but  really  indepen- 
dent, long  governed,  with  the  titles  of  dukes,  marquesses,  and 
counts,  almost  every  part  of  the  dominions  which  had  obeyed 
Charlemagne. 

Such  or  nearly  such  was  the  change  which  passed  on  the 
Mogul  empire  during  the  forty  years  which  followed  the 
death  of  Aurungzebe.  A succession  of  nominal  sovereigns, 
sunk  in  indolence  and  debauchery,  sauntered  away  life  in 
secluded  palaces,  chewing  bang,  fondling  concubines,  and 
listening  to  buffoons.  A succession  of  ferocious  invaders 
descended  through  the  western  passes,  to  prey  on  the  de- 
fenceless wealth  of  Hindostan.  A Persian  conqueror  crossed 
the  Indus,  marched  through  the  gates  of  Delhi,  and  bore 
away  in  triumph  those  treasures  of  which  the  magnificence 
had  astounded  Roe  and  Bernier,  the  Peacock  Throne,  on 
which  the  richest  jewels  of  Golconda  had  been  disposed  by 
the  most  skilful  hands  of  Europe,  and  the  inestimable  Moun- 
tain of  Light,  which,  after  many  strange  vicissitudes,  lately 
shone  in  the  bracelet  of  Runjeet  Sing,  and  is  now  destined 
to  adorn  the  hideous  idol  of  Orissa.  The  Afghan  soon  fol- 
lowed to  complete  the  work  of  devastation  which  the  Per- 
sian had  begun.  The  warlike  tribes  of  Raj  poo  tana  threw 
off  the  Mussulman  yoke.  A band  of  mercenary  soldiers  oc- 
cupied Rohilcund.  The  Seiks  ruled  on  the  Indus.  The 
J auts  spread  dismay  along  the  Jumna.  The  highlands  which 
border  on  the  western  sea-coast  of  India  poured  forth  a yet 
more  formidable  race,  a race  which  was  long  the  terror  of 
every  native  power,  and  which,  after  many  desperate  and 
doubtful  struggles,  yielded  only  to  the  fortune  and  genius 


400  MACATJXAY*S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRtTlisrOfc. 

of  England.  It  was  under  the  reign  of  Aurungzebe  that 
this  wild  clan  of  plunderers  first  descended  from  their  moun- 
tains ; and  soon  after  his  death,  every  corner  of  his  wide  em- 
pire learned  to  tremble  at  the  mighty  name  of  the  Mahrattas. 
Many  fertile  viceroyalties  were  entirely  subdued  by  them. 
Their  dominions  stretched  across  the  peninsula  from  sea  to 
sea.  Mahratta  captains  reigned  at  Poonah,  at  Gualior,  in 
Guzerat,  in  Berar,  and  in  Tanjore.  Nor  did  they,  though 
they  had  become  great  soverigns,  therefore  cease  to  be  free- 
booters. They  still  retained  the  predatory  habits  of  their 
forefathers.  Every  region  which  was  not  subject  to  their 
rule  was  wasted  by  their  incursions.  Wherever  their  kettle- 
drums were  heard,  the  peasant  threw  his  bag  of  rice  on  his 
shoulder,  hid  his  small  savings  in  his  girdle,  and  fled  with 
his  wife  and  children  to  the  mountains  or  the  jungles,  to  the 
milder  neighborhood  of  the  hyaena  and  the  tiger.  Many 
provinces  redeemed  their  harvests  by  the  payment  of  an 
annual  ransom.  Even  the  wretched  phantom  who  still  bore 
the  imperial  title  stooped  to  pay  this  ignominious  black- 
mail. The  camp-fires  of  one  rapacious  leader  was  seen  from 
the  walls  of  the  palace  of  Delhi.  Another,  at  the  head  of  his 
innumerable  cavalry,  descended  year  after  year  on  the  rice- 
fields  of  Bengal.  Even  the  European  factors  trembled  for 
their  magazines.  Less  than  a hundred  years  ago,  it  was 
thought  necessary  to  fortify  Calcutta  against  the  horsemen 
of  Berar,  and  the  name  of  the  Mahratta  ditch  still  preserves 
the  memory  of  the  danger. 

Wherever  the  viceroys  of  the  Mogul  retained  authority 
they  became  sovereigns.  They  might  still  acknowledge  in 
words  the  superiority  of  the  house  of  Tamerlane ; as  a Count 
of  Flanders  or  a Duke  of  Burgundy  might  have  acknowl- 
edged the  superiority  of  the  most  helpless  driveller  among 
the  later  Carlovingians.  They  might  occasionally  send  to 
their  titular  sovereign  a complimentary  present,  or  solicit 
from  him  a title  of  honor.  In  truth,  however,  they  were 
no  longer  lieutenants  removable  at  pleasure,  but  indepen- 
dent hereditary  princes.  In  this  way  originated  those  great 
Mussulman  houses  which  formerly  ruled  Bengal  and  the 
Carnatic,  and  those  which  still,  though  in  a state  of  vassal- 
age,  exercise  some  of  the  powers  of  royalty  at  Lucknow  and 
Hyderabad. 

In  what  was  this  confusion  to  end  ? Was  the  strife  to 
continue  during  centuries  ? Was  it  to  terminate  in  the  rise 
of  another  great  monarchy  ? Was  the  Mussulman  or  the 


umrt  rtiVH. 


401 


Mahratta  to  be  the  Lord  of  India?  Was  another  Baber  to 
descend  from  the  mountains,  and  to  lead  the  hardy  tribes  of 
Cabul  and  Chorasan  against  a wealthier  and  less  warlike 
race?  None  of  these  events  seeme'd  improbable.  But 
scarcely  any  man,  however  sagacious,  would  have  thought 
it  possible  that  a trading  company,  separated  from  India  by 
fifteen  thousand  miles  of  sea,  and  possessing  in  India  only 
a few  acres  for  purposes  of  commerce,  would,  in  less  than  a 
hundred  years,  spread  its  empire  from  Cape  Comorin  to 
the  eternal  snow  of  the  Himalayas  ; would  compel  Mahratta 
and  Mahommedan  to  forget  their  mutual  feuds  in  common 
subjection  ; would  tame  down  even  those  wild  races  which 
had  resisted  the  most  powerful  of  the  Moguls  ; and  having 
united  under  its  laws  a hundred  millions  of  subjects,  would 
carry  its  victorious  arms  far  to  the  east  of  the  Burrampooter, 
and  far  to  the  west  of  the  Hydaspes,  dictate  terms  of 
peace  at  the  gates  of  Ava,  and  seat  its  vassal  on  the  throne 
of  Candahar. 

The  man  who  first  saw  that  it  was  possible  to  found  an 
European  empire  on  the  ruins  of  the  Mogul  monarchy  was 
Dupleix.  His  restless,  capracious,  and  inventive  mind  had 
formed  this  scheme,  at  a time  when  the  ablest  servants  of 
the  English  Company  were  busied  only  about  invoices  and 
bills  of  lading.  Nor  had  he  only  proposed  to  himself  the 
end.  He  had  also  a just  and  distinct  view  of  the  means  by 
which  it  was  to  be  attained.  He  clearly  saw  that  the  great- 
est force  which  the  princes  of  India  could  bring  into  the 
■field  would  be  no  match  for  a small  body  of  men  trained  in 
the  discipline,  and  guided  by  the  tactics,  of  the  Wbst.  He 
saw  also  that  the  natives  of  India  might,  under  European 
commanders,  be  formed  into  armies,  such  as  Saxe  or  Frederic 
would  be  proud  to  command.  He  was  perfectly  aware  that 
the  most  easy  and  convenient  way  in  which  an  European 
adventurer  could  exercise  sovereignty  in  India,  was  to  gov- 
ern the  motions,  and  to  speak  through  the  mouth  of  some 
glittering  puppet  dignified  by  the  title  of  Nabob  or  Nizam. 
The  arts  both  of  war  and  policy,  which  a few  years  later 
were  employed  witli  such  signal  success  by  the  English, 
were  first  understood  and  practised  by  this  ingenious  and 
aspiring  Frenchman. 

The  situation  of  India  was  such  that  scarcely  any  ag- 
gression could  be  without  a pretext,  either  in  old  laws  or  in 
recent  practice.  All  rights  were  in  a state  of  utter  uncer- 
tainty ; and  the  Europeans  who  took  part  m the  disputes  of 

Vol.  II. — 26  r 


402  maoaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

the  natives  confounded  the  confusion,  by  applying  to  Asiatic 
politics  the  public  law  of  the  West  and  analogies  drawn 
from  the  feudal  system.  If  it  was  convenient  to  treat  a 
Nabob  as  an  independent  prince  there  was  an  excellent  plea 
for  doing  so.  He  was  independent  in  fact.  If  it  was  con- 
venient to  treat  him  as  a mere  deputy  of  the  Court  of  Delhi, 
there  was  no  difficulty ; for  he  was  so  in  theory.  If  it  was 
convenient  to  consider  his  office  as  an  hereditary  dignity,  : r 
as  a dignity  held  during  life  only,  or  as  a dignity  held  only 
during  the  good  pleasure  of  the  Mogul,  arguments  and  pre- 
cedents might  be  found  for  every  one  of  those  views.  The 
party  who  had  the  heir  of  Baber  in  their  hands  represented 
him  as  the  undoubted,  the  legitimate,  the  absolute  sovereign, 
whom  all  subordinate  authorities  were  bound  to  obey.  The 
party  against  whom  his  name  was  used  did  not  want  plaus- 
ible pretexts  for  maintaining  that  the  empire  was  in  fact 
dissolved,  and  that,  though  it  might  be  decent  to  treat  the 
Mogul  with  respect,  as  a venerable  relic  of  an  order  of 
things  which  had  passed  away,  it  was  absurd  to  regard  him 
as  the  real  master  of  Hindostan. 

In  the  year  1748,  died  one  of  the  most  powerful  of  the 
new  masters  of  India,  the  great  Nizam  al  Mulk,  Viceroy  of 
the  Deccan.  His  authority  descended  to  his  son,  Nazir 
Jung.  Of  the  provinces  subject  to  this  high  functionary, 
the  Carnatic  was  the  wealthiest  and  the  most  extensive.  It 
was  governed  by  an  ancient  Nabob,  whose  name  the  English 
corrupted  into  Anaverdy  Khan. 

But  there  were  pretenders  to  the  government  both  of  the 
viceroyalty  and  of  the  subordinate  province.  Mirzapha 
Jung,  a grandson  of  Nizam  al  Mulk,  appeared  as  the  com- 
petitor of  Nazir  Jung.  Chunda  Sahib,  son-in-law  of  a for- 
mer Nabob  of  the  Carnatic,  disputed  the  title  of  Anavardy 
Khan.  In  the  unsettled  state  of  Indian  law  it  was  easy  for 
both  Mirzapha  Jung  and  Chunda  Sahib  to  make  out  some* 
thing  like  a claim  of  right.  In  a society  altogether  disor- 
ganized, they  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  greedy  adventurers 
to  follow  their  standards.  They  united  their  interests,  in- 
vaded the  Carnatic,  and  applied  for  assistance  to  the  French 
whose  fame  had  been  raised  by  their  success  against  tho 
English  in  the  recent  war  on  the  cor  t t Coromandel. 

Nothing  could  have  happened  moi ' pleasing  to  the  sub- 
tile and  ambitious  Dupleix.  To  make  a Nabob  of  the  Car- 
natic, to  make  a Viceroy  of  the  Deccan,  to  rule  under  their 
names  the  whole  of  southern  Indie  , this  was  indeed  an 


LORD  CLIVE. 


403 


attractive  prospect.  He  allied  himself  with  the  pretenders, 
and  sent  four  hundred  French  soldiers,  and  two  thousand 
sepoys,  disciplined  after  the  European  fashion,  to  the  assist- 
ance of  his  confederates.  A battle  was  fought.  The  French 
distinguished  themselves  greatly.  Anaverdy  Kahn  was  de- 
feated and  slain.  His  son,  Mahommed  Ali,  who  was  after- 
wards well  known  in  England  as  the  Nabob  of  Arcot,  and 
who  owes  to  the  eloquence  of  Burke  a most  unenviablo 
immortality,  fled  with  a scanty  remnant  of  his  army  to 
Trichinopoly ; and  the  conquerors  became  at  once  masters 
of  almost  every  part  of  the  Carnatic. 

This  was  but  the  beginning  of  the  greatness  of  Dupleix. 
After  some  months  of  fighting,  negotiation,  and  intrigue,  his 
ability  and  good  fortune  seemed  to  have  prevailed  every- 
where. Nazir  Jung  perished  by  the  hands  of  his  own  fol- 
lowers ; Mirzapha  Jung  was  master  of  the  Deccan  ; and  the 
triumph  of  French  arms  and  French  policy  was  complete. 
At  Pondicherry  all  was  exultation  and  festivity.  Salutes 
were  fired  from  the  batteries,  and  Te  Deum  sung  in  the 
churches.  The  new  Nizam  came  thither  to  visit  his  allies  ; 
and  the  ceremony  of  his  installation  was  performed  there 
with  great  pomp.  Dupleix,  dressed  in  the  garb  worn  by 
Mahommedans  of  the  highest  rank,  entered  the  town  in  the 
same  palanquin  with  the  Nizam,  and,  in  the  pageant  which 
followed,  took  precedence  of  all  the  court.  He  was  de- 
clared Governor  of  India  from  the  river  Kristna  to  Cape 
Comorin,  a country  about  as  large  as  France,  with  authority 
superior  even  to  that  of  Chun  da  Sahib.  He  was  intrusted 
Avith  the  command  of  seven  thousand  cavalry.  It  Avas  an- 
nounced that  no  mint  would  be  suffered  to  exist  m the  Car- 
natic except  that  at  Pondicherry.  A large  portion  of  the 
treasures  which  former  Viceroys  of  the  Deccan  had  ac- 
cumulated found  its  way  into  the  coffers  of  the  French 
governor.  It  Avas  rumored  that  he  had  received  two  hun- 
dred thousand  pounds  sterling  in  money,  besides  many  val- 
uable jewels.  In  fact,  there  could  scarcely  be  any  limit  to 
bis  gains.  He  now  ruled  thirty  millions  of  people  with 
almost  absolute  power.  No  honor  or  emolument  could  l?e 
obtained  from  the  government  but  by  his  intervention.  No 
petition,  unless  signed  by  him,  Avas  perused  by  the  Nizam. 

Mirzapha  Jung  survived  his  elevation  only  a few 
months.  But  another  prince  of  the  same  house  was  raised 
to  the  throne  by  French  influence,  and  ratified  all  the  prom* 
ises  of  his  predecessor.  Dupleix  was  now  the  greatest 


404  macaflay’s  miscellaneous  writings* 

potentate  in  India.  His  countrymen  boasted  that  his  name 
was  mentioned  with  awe  ever-  in  the  chambers  of  the  palace 
of  Delhi.  The  native  population  looked  with  amazement 
on  the  progress  which,  in  the  short  space  of  four  years,  an 
European  adventurer  had  made  towards  dominion  in  Asia. 
Nor  was  the  vain-glorious  Frenchman  content  with  the 
reality  of  power.  He  loved  to  display  his  greatness  with 
arrogant  ostentation  before  the  eyes  of  his  subjects  and  of 
his  rivals.  Near  the  spot  where  his  policy  had  obtained  its 
chief  triumph,  by  the  fall  of  Nazir  Jung  and  the  elevation  of 
Mirzapha,  he*determined  to  erect  a column,  on  the  four  sides 
of  which  four  pompous  inscriptions,  in  four  languages,  should 
proclaim  his  glory  to  all  the  nations  of  the  East.  Medals 
stamped  with  emblems  of  his  successes  were  buried  beneath 
the  foundations  of  this  stately  pillar,  and  round  it  arose  a 
town  bearing  the  haughty  name  of  Dupleix  Fatihabad,  which 
is,  being  interpreted,  the  City  of  the  Victory  of  Dupleix. 

The  English  had  made  some  feeble  and  irresolute  at- 
tempts to  stop  the  rapid  and  brilliant  career  of  the  rival 
Company,  and  continued  to  recognize  Mahommed  Ali  as 
Nabob  of  the  Carnatic.  But  the  dominions  of  Mahommed 
Ali  consisted  of  Trichinopoly  alone ; -and  Trichinopoly  was 
now  invested  by  Chunda  Sahib  and  his  French  auxiliaries. 
To  raise  the  siege  seemed  impossible.  The  small  force 
which  was  then  at  Madras  had  no  commander.  Major 
Lawrence  had  returned  to  England  ; and  not  a single  officer 
of  established  character  remained  in  the  settlement.  The 
natives  had  learned  to  look  with  contempt  on  the  mighty 
nation  which  was  soon  to  conquer  and  to  rule  them.  They 
had  seen  the  French  colors  flying  on  Fort  St.  George  ; they 
had  seen  the  chiefs  of  the  English  factory  led  in  triumph 
through  the  streets  of  Pondicherry ; they  had  seen  the  arms 
and  counsels  of  Dupleix  everywhere  successful,  while  the 
opposition  which  the  authorities  of  Madras  had  made  to  his 
pro  gress,  had  served  only  to  expose  their  own  weakness,  and 
to  heighten  his  glory.  At  this  moment,  the  valor  and  genius 
of  an  obscure  English  youth  suddenly  turned  the  tide  of 
fortune. 

Clive  was  now  twenty-five  years  old.  After  hesitating 
for  some  time  between  a military  and  a commercial  life,  he 
had  at  length  been  placed  in  a post  which  partook  of  both 
characters,  that  of  commissary  to  the  troops,  with  the  rank 
of  captain.  The  present  emergency  called  forth  all  his  pow- 
ers. He  represented  to  his  superiors  that  unless  some 


LORD  OLIVE. 


405 


vigorous  effort  were  made,  Trichinopoly  wojdd  fall,  the 
house  of  Anaverdy  Khan  would  perish,  and  the  French 
would  become  the  real  masters  of  the  whole  peninsula  of  In- 
dia. It  was  absolutely  necessary  to  strike  some  daring  blow. 
If  an  attack  were  made  on  Arcot,  the  capital  of  the  Carnatic, 
and  the  favorite  residence  of  the  Nabobs,  it  was  not  impossible 
that  the  siege  of  Trichinopoly  would  be  raised.  The  heads 
of  the  English  settlement,  now  thoroughly  alarmed  by  the 
success  of  Dupleix,  and  apprehensive  that,  in  the  event  of  a 
new  war  between  France  and  Great  Britain,  Madras  would  be 
instantly  taken  and  destroyed,  approved  of  Clive’s  plan,  and 
intrusted  the  execution  of  it  to  himself.  The  young  captain 
was  put  at  the  head  of  two  hundred  English  soldiers,  and 
three  hundred  sepoys,  armed  and  disciplined  after  the  Eu- 
ropean fashion.  Of  the  eight  officers  who  commanded  this 
little  force  «mder  him,  only  two  had  ever  been  in  action,  and 
four  of  the  eight  were  factors  of  the  company,  whom  Clive’s 
example  had  induced  to  offer  their  services.  The  weather 
was  stormy  ; but  Clive  pushed  on,  through  thunder,  light- 
ning, and  rain,  to  the  gates  of  Arcot.  The  garrison,  in  a 
panic,  evacuted  the  fort,  and  the  English  entered  it  without 
a blow. 

But  Clive  well  knew  that  he  should  not  be  suffered  to 
retain  undisturbed  possession  of  his  conquest.  He  instantly 
began  to  collect  provisions,  to  throw  up  works,  and  to  make 
preparations  for  sustaining  a siege.  The  garrison,  which 
had  fled  at  his  approach,  had  now  recovered  from  its  dismay, 
and  having  been  swollen  by  large  reinforcements  from  the 
neighborhood  to  a force  of  three  thousand  men,  encamped 
close  to  the  town.  At  dead  of  night,  Clive  marched  out  of 
the  fort,  attacked  the  camp  by  surprise,  slew  great  numbers, 
dispersed  the  rest,  and  returned  to  his  quarters  without  hav- 
ing lost  a single  man. 

The  intelligence  of  these  events  was  soon  carried  to 
Chunda  Sahib,  who,  with  his  French  allies,  was  besieging 
Trichinopoly.  He  immediately  detached  four  thousand 
men  from  his  camp,  and  sent  them  to  Arcot.  They  were 
speedily  joined  by  the  remains  of  the  force  which  Clive  had 
lately  scattered.  They  were  further  strengthened  by  two 
thousand  men  from  Vellore,  and  by  a still  more  important 
reinforcement  of  a hundred  and  fifty  French  soldiers  whom 
Dupleix  despatched  from  Pondicherry.  The  whole  of  this 
army,  amounting  to  about  ten  thousand  men,  was  under  the 
command  of  Rajah  Sahib,  sou  of  Chunda  Sahib- 


406  Macaulay's  miscellaneous  waitings. 

Rajah  Sahib  proceeded  to  invest  the  fort  of  Arcot,  which 
6eemed  quite  incapable  of  sustaining  a siege.  The  walls 
were  ruinous,  the  ditches  dry,  the  ramparts  too  narrow  to 
admit  the  guns,  the  battlements  too  low  to  protect  the  sol- 
diers. The  little  garrison  had  been  greatly  reduced  by  cas- 
ualties. It  now  consisted  of  a hundred  and  twenty  Euro- 
peans and  two  hundred  sepoys.  Only  four  officers  were  left ; 
the  stock  of  provisions  was  scanty ; and  the  commander, 
who  had  to  conduct  the  defence  under  circumstances  so  dis- 
couraging, was  a young  man  of  five  and  twenty,  who  had 
been  bred  a book-keeper. 

During  fifty  days  the  siege  went  on.  During  fifty  days 
the  young  captain  maintained  the  defence  with  a firmness, 
vigilance,  and  ability,  which  would  have  done  honor  to  the 
oldest  marshal  in  Europe.  The  breach,  however,  increased 
day  by  day.  The  garrison  began  to  feel  the  pressure  of 
hunger.  Under  such  circumstances,  any  troops  so  scantily 
provided  with  officers  might  have  been  expected  to  show 
signs  of  insubordination  ; and  the  danger  was  peculiarly  great 
in  a force  composed  of  men  differing  widely  from  each  other 
in  extraction,  color,  language,  manners,  and  religion.  But 
the  devotion  of  the  little  band  to  its  chief  surpassed  any- 
thing that  is  related  of  the  Tenth  Legion  of  Caesar,  or  of  the 
Old  Guard  of  Napoleon.  The  sepoys  came  to  Clive,  not  to 
complain  of  their  scanty  fare,  but  to  propose  that  all  the  grain 
should  be  given  to  the  Europeans,  who  required  more  nour- 
ishment than  the  natives  of  Asia.  The  thin  gruel,  they  said, 
which  was  strained  away  from  the  rice,  would  suffice  for 
themselves.  History  contains  no  more  touching  instance  of 
military  fidelity,  or  of  the  influence  of  a commanding  mind. 

An  attempt  made  by  the  government  of  Madras  to  re- 
lieve the  place  had  failed.  But  there  was  hope  from  another 
quarter.  A body  of  six  thousand  Mahrattas,  half  soldiers, 
half  robbers,  under  the  command  of  a chief  .named  Morari 
Row,  had  been  hired  to  assist  Mahommed  Ali ; but  think- 
ing the  French  power  irresistible,  and  the  triumph  of 
Chunda  Sahib  certain,  they  had  hitherto  remained  inactive 
on  the  frontiers  of  the  Carnatic.  The  fame  of  the  defence 
of  Arcot  roused  them  from  their  torpor.  Morari  Row  de- 
clared that  he  had  never  before  believed  that  Englishmen 
could  fight,  but  that  he  would  willingly  help  them  since  he 
saw  that  they  had  spirit  to  help  themselves.  Rajah  Sahib 
learned  that  the  Mahrattas  were  in  motion.  It  was  neces- 
sary for  him  to  be  expeditious.  He  first  tried  negotiations. 


lORD  CLIVE. 


40? 


He  offered  large  bribes  to  Clive,  which  were  rejected  with 
scorn.  He  vowed  that,  if  his  proposals  were  not  accepted, 
he  would  instantly  storm  the  fortj  and  put  every  man  in  it 
to  the  sword.  Clive  told  him  in  reply,  with  characteristic 
haughtiness,  that  his  father  was  an  usurper,  that  his  army 
was  a rabble,  and  that  he  would  do  well  to  think  twice  be- 
fore he  sent  such  poltroons  into  a breach  defended  by  Eng- 
lish soldiers. 

Rajah  Sahib  determined  to  storm  the  fort.  The  day  was 
well  suited  to  a bold  military  enterprise.  It  was  the  great 
Mahommedan  festival  which  is  sacred  to  the  memory  of 
Ilosein  the  son  of  Ali.  The  history  of  Islam  contains  noth- 
ing more  touching  than  the  event  which  gave  rise  to  that 
solemnity.  The  mournful  legend  relates  how  the  chief  of 
the  Fatimites,  when  all  his  brave  followers  had  perished 
round  him,  drank  his  latest  draught  of  water,  and  uttered 
his  latest  prayer,  how  the  assassins  carried  his  head  in  tri- 
umph, how  the  tyrant  smote  the  lifeless  lips  with  his  staff, 
and  how  a few  old  men  recollected  with  tears  that  they  had 
seen  those  lips  pressed  to  the  lips  of  the  prophet  of  God. 
After  the  lapse  of  near  twelve  centuries,  the  recurrence  of 
this  solemn  season  excites  the  fiercest  and  saddest  emotions 
in  the  bosoms  of  the  devout  Moslem  of  India.  They  work 
themselves  up  to  such  agonies  of  rage  and  lamentation  that 
some,  it  is  said,  have  given  up  the  ghost  from  the  mere  effect 
of  mental  excitement.  They  believe  that  whoever,  during 
tills  festival,  falls  in  arms  against  the  infidels,  atones  by  his 
death  for  all  the  sins  of  his  life,  and  passes  at  once  to  the 
garden  of  the  Houris.  It  wTas  at  this  time  that  Rajah  Sahib 
determined  to  assault  Arcot.  Stimulating  drugs  were  em- 
ployed to  aid  the  effect  of  religious  zeal,  and  the  besiegers, 
drunk  with  enthusiasm,  drunk  with  bang,  rushed  furiously 
to  the  attack. 

Clive  had  received  secret  intelligence  of  the  design,  had 
made  his  arrangements,  and  exhausted  by  fatigue,  had 
thrown  himself  on  his  bed.  lie  was  awakened  by  the  alarm, 
and  was  instantly  at  his  post.  The  enemy  advanced,  driv- 
ing before  them  elephants  whose  foreheads  were  armed  with 
iron  plates.  It  was  expected  that  the  gates  would  yield  to 
the  shock  of  these  living  battering-rams.  But  the  huge 
beasts  no  sooner  felt  the  English  musket  balls  than  they 
turned  round,  and  rushed  furiously  away,  trampling  on  the 
multitude  which  had  urged  them  forward.  A raft  was 
launched  on  the  water  which  filled  one  part  of  the  ditch. 


408  MACAtTLAY*S  MISCELLANEOUS  WETTINGS. 

Clive,  perceiving  that  his  gunners  at  that  post  did  not  tm« 
derstand  their  business,  took  the  management  of  a piece  of 
artillery  himself,  and  cleared  the  raft  in  a few  minutes. 
Where  the  moat  was  dry  the  assailants  mounted  with  great, 
boldness  ; but  they  were  received  with  a fire  so  heavy  and 
so  well  directed,  that  it  soon  quelled  the  courage  even  of 
fanaticism  and  of  intoxication.  The  rear  ranks  of  the  Eng- 
lish kept  the  front  ranks  supplied  with  a constant  succes- 
sion of  loaded  muskets,  and  every  shot  told  on  the  living 
mass  below.  After  three  desperate  onsets,  the  besiegers 
retired  behind  the  ditch. 

The  struggle  lasted  about  an  .lour.  Four  hundred  of 
the  assailants  fell.  The  garrison  lost  only  five  or  six  men. 
The  besieged  passed  an  anxious  night,  looking  for  a renewal 
of  the  attack.  But  when  day  broke,  the  enemy  were  no 
more  to  be  seen.  They  had  retired,  leaving  to  the  English 
several  guns  and  a large  quantity  of  ammunition. 

The  news  was  received  at  Fort  St.  George  with  trans- 
ports of  joy  and  pride.  Clive  was  justly  regarded  as  a man 
equal  to  any  command.  Two  hundred  English  soldiers  and 
seven  hundred  sepoys  were  sent  to  him,  and  with  this  force 
he  instantly  commenced  offensive  operations.  He  took  the 
fort  of  Timery,  effected  a junction  with  a division  of  Morari 
Row’s  army,  and  hastened,  by  forced  marches,  to  attack 
Rajah  Sahib,  who  was  at  the  head  of  about  five  thousand 
men,  of  whom  three  hundred  were  French.  The  action  was 
sharp  ; but  Clive  gained  a complete  victory.  The  military 
chest  of  Rajah  Sahib  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  conquerors. 
Six  hundred  se])oys  who  had  served  in  the  enemy’s  army 
came  over  to  Clive’s  quarters  and  were  taken  into  the  Brit- 
ish service.  Conjeveram  surrendered  without  a blow.  The 
governor  of  Arnee  deserted  Chunda  Sahib,  and  recognized 
the  title  of  Mahommed  Ali. 

Had  the  entire  direction  of  the  war  been  intrusted  to 
Clive,  it  would  probably  have  been  brought  to  a speedy 
close.  But  the  timidity  and  incapacity  which  appeared  in 
all  the  movements  of  the  English,  except  where  he  was  per- 
sonally present,  protracted  the  struggle.  The  Mahrattas 
muttered  that  his  soldiers  were  of  a different  race  from  the 
British  whom  they  found  elsewhere.  The  effect  of  this 
languor  was  that  in  no  long  time  Rajah  Sahib,  at  the  head 
of  a considerable  army,  in  which  were  four  hundred  French 
troops,  appeared  almost  under  the  guns  of  Fort  St.  George, 
and  laid  waste  the  villas  and  gardens  of  the  gentlemen  of 


LORD  CLIVE. 


409 


the  English  settlement.  But  he  was  again  encountered  and 
defeated  by  Clive.  More  than  a hundred  of  the  French 
were  killed  or  taken,  loss  more  serious  than  that  of  thou- 
sands of  natives.  The  victorious  arniy  marched  from  the 
field  Of  battle  to  Fort  St.  David.  On  the  road  lay  the  City 
of  the  Victory  of  Dupleix,  and  the  stately  monument  which 
was  designed  to  commemorate  the  triumphs  of  France  in 
the  East.  Clive  ordered  both  the  city  and  the  monument 
to  be  razed  to  the  ground.  He  was  induced,  we  believe,  to 
take  this  step,  not  by  personal  or  national  malevolence,  but 
by  a just  and  profound  policy.  The  town  and  its  pompous 
name,  the  pillar  and  its  vaunting  inscriptions,  were  among 
the  devices  by  which  Dupleix  had  laid  the  public  mind  of 
India  under  a spell.  This  spell  it  was  Clive’s  business  to 
break.  The  natives  had  been  taught  that  France  was  con- 
fessedly the  first  power  in  Europe,  and  that  the  English  did 
not  presume  to  dispute  her  supremacy.  FTo  measure  could 
be  more  effectual  for  the  removal  of  this  delusion  than  the 
public  and  solemn  demolition,  of  the  French  trophies. 

The  government  of  Madras,  encouraged  by  these  events, 
determined  to  send  a strong  detachment,  under  Clive,  to 
reinforce  the  garrison  of  Trichinopoly.  But  just  at  this 
conjuncture,  Major  Lawrence  arrived  from  England,  and 
assumed  the  chief  command.  From  the  waywardness  and 
impatience  of  control  which  had  characterized  Clive,  both 
at  school  and  in  the  counting-house,  it  might  have  been  ex- 
pected that  he  would  not,  after  such  achievements,  act  with 
zeal  and  good  humor  in  a subordinate  capacity.  But  Law- 
rence had  early  treated  him  with  kindness ; and  it  is  bare 
justice  to  Clive  to  say  that,  proud  and  overbearing  as  he 
was,  kindness  was  never  thrown  away  upon  him.  He  cheer- 
fully placed  himself  under  the  orders  of  his  old  friend,  and 
exerted  himself  as  strenuously  m the  second  post  as  he 
could  have  done  in  the  first.  Lawrence  well  knew  the 
value  of  such  assistance.  Though  himself  gifted  with  no 
intellectual  faculty  higher  than  plain  good  sense,  he  fully 
appreciated  the  powers  of  his  brilliant  coadjutor.  Though 
he  had  made  a methodical  study  of  military  tactics,  and, 
like  all  men  regularly  bred  to  a profession,  was  disposed  to 
look  with  disdain  on  interlopers,  he  had  yet  liberality  enough 
to  acknowledge  that  Clive  was  an  exception  to  common 
rules.  “ Some  people,”  he  wrote,  “ are  pleased  to  term 
Captain  Clive  fortunate  and  lucky ; but,  in  my  opinion, 
from  the  knowledge  I have  of  the  gentleman,  he  deserved 


410 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


and  might  expect  from  Ills  conduct  everything  as  it  fell 
out ; — a man  of  an  undaunted  resolution,  of  a cool  temper, 
and  of  a presence  of  mind  which  never  left  him  in  the 
greatest  danger — born  a soldier;  for,  without  a military 
education  of  any  sort,  or  much  conversing  with  any  of  the 
profession,  from  his  judgment  and  good  sense,  he  led  on  an 
army  like  an  experienced  officer  and  a brave  soldier,  with  a 
prudence  that  certainly  warranted  success.” 

The  French  had  no  commander  to  oppose  to  the  two 
friends.  Dupleix,  not  inferior  in  talents  for  negotiation  and 
intrigue  to  any  European  who  has  borne  a part  in  the  rev- 
olutions of  India,  was  ill  qualified  to  direct  in  person  mili- 
tary operations.  He  had  not  been  bred  a soldier,  and  had 
no  inclination  to  become  one.  His  enemies  accused  him  of 
personal  cowardice ; and  he  defended  himself  in  a strain 
worthy  of  Captain  Bobadil.  He  kept  away  from  shot,  he 
said,  because  silence  and  tranquillity  were  propitious  to  his 
genius,  and  he  found  it  difficult  to  pursue  his  meditations 
amidst  the  noise  of  fire-arms.  He  w^as  thus  under  the  neces- 
sity of  intrusting  to  others  the  execution  of  his  great  war- 
like designs ; and  he  bitterly  complained  that  he  was  ill 
served.  He  had  indeed  been  assisted  by  one  officer  of 
eminent  merit,  the  celebrated  Bussy.  But  Bussy  had 
marched  northward  with  the  Nizam,  and  was  fully  employed 
in  looking  after  his  own  interests,  and  those  of  France,  at 
the  court  of  that  prince.  Among  the  officers  who  remained 
with  Dunleix,  there  was  not  a single  man  of  capacity ; and 
many  of  them  were  boys,  at  whose  ignorance  and  folly  the 
common  soldiers  laughed. 

The  English  triumphed  everywhere.  The  besiegers  of  ^ 
Trichinopoly  were  themselves  besieged  and  compelled  to 
capitulate.  Chunda  Sahib  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Mah- 
rattas,  and  was  put  to  death,  at  the  instigation  probably  of 
his  competitor,  Mahommed  Ali.  The  spirit  of  Dupleix, 
however,  was  unconquerable,  and  his  resources  inexhaust-  , 
ible.  From  his  employers  in  Europe  he  no  longer  received 
help  or  countenance.  They  condemned  his  policy.  They 
gave  him  no  pecuniary  assistance.  They  sent  him  for  troops  3 
only  the  sweepings  of  the  galleys.  Yet  still  he  persisted,  i 
intrigued,  bribed,  promised,  lavished  his  private  fortune,  \ 
strained  his  credit,  procured  new  diplomas  from  Delhi,  jj 
raised  up  new  enemies  to  the  Government  of  Madras  on 
every  side,  and  found  tools  even  among  the  allies  of  tho 
English  Company.  But  all  was  in  vain.  Slowly,  but 


LORD  CLIVE. 


411 


steadily,  the  power  of  Britain  continued  to  increase,  and 
that  of  France  to  decline. 

The  health  of  Clive  had  never  been  good  during  his 
residence  in  India ; and  his  constitution  was  now  so  much 
impaired  that  he  determined  to  return  to  England.  Before 
his  departure  he  undertook  a service  of  considerable  dif- 
ficulty, and  performed  it  with  his  usual  vigor  and  dexterity. 
The  forts  of  Covelong  and  Chingleput  were  occupied  by 
French  garrisons.  It  was  determined  to  send  a force  against 
them.  But  the  only  force  available  for  this  purpose  was  of 
such  a description  that  no  officer  but  Clive  would  risk  his 
reputation  by  commanding  it.  It  consisted  of  five  hundred 
newly  levied  sepoys,  and  two  hundred  recruits  who  had  just 
landed  from  England,  and  who  were  the  worst  and  lowest 
wretches  that  the  Company’s  crimps  could  pick  up  in  the 
flash-houses  of  London.  Clive,  ill  and  exhausted  as  he  was, 
undertook  to  make  an  army  of  this  undisciplined  rabble, 
and  marched  with  them  to  Covelong.  A shot  from  the  fort 
killed  one  of  these  extraordinary  soldiers ; on  which  all  the 
rest  faced  about  and  ran  away,  and  it  was  with  the  greatest 
difficulty  that  Clive  rallied  them.  On  another  occasion,  the 
noise  of  a gun  terrified  the  sentinels  so  much  that  one  of 
them  was  found,  some  hours  later,  at  the  bottom  of  a well. 
Clive  gradually  accustomed  them  to  danger,  and,  by  expos- 
ing himself  constantly  in  the  most  perilous  situation,  shamed 
them  into  courage.  He  at  length  succeeded  in  forming  a 
respectable  force  out  of  his  unpromising  materials.  Cove- 
long fell.  Clive  learned  that  a strong  detachment  was 
marching  to  relieve  it  from  Chingleput.  He  took  measures 
to  prevent  the  enemy  from  learning  that  they  were  too  late, 
laid  an  ambuscade  for  them  on  the  road,  killed  a hundred 
of  them  with  one  fire,  took  three  hundred  prisoners,  pur- 
sued the  fugitives  to  the  gates  of  Chingleput,  laid  siege  in- 
stantly to  that  fastness,  reputed  one  of  the  strongest  in 
India,  made  a breach,  and  was  on  the  point  of  storming, 
when  the  French  commandant  capitulated  and  retired  with 
his  men. 

Clive  returned  to  Madras  victorious,  but  in  a state  of 
health  which  rendered  it  impossible  for  him  to  remain  there 
long.  He  married  at  this  time  a young  lady  of  the  name  of 
Maskelyne,  sister  of  the  eminent  mathematician,  who  long 
held  the  post  of  Astronomer  Royal.  She  is  described  as 
handsome  and  accomplished  ; and  her  husband's  letters,  it 
is  said,  contain  proofs  that  he  was  devotedly  attached  to  her. 


412 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


Almost  immediately  after  the  marriage,  Clive  embarked 
with  his  bride  for  England.  He  returned  a very  different 
person  from  the  poor  slighted  boy  who  had  been  sent  out 
ten  years  before  to  seek  his  fortune.  He  was  only  twenty- 
seven  ; yet  his  country  already  respected  him  as  one  of  her 
first  soldiers.  There  was  then  general  peace  in  Europe. 
The  Carnatic  was  the  only  part  of  the  world  where  the  Eng- 
lish and  French  were  in  arms  against  each  other.  The  vast 
schemes  of  Dupleix  had  excited  no  small  uneasiness  in  the 
city  of  London  ; and  the  rapid  turn  of  fortune,  which  was 
chiefly  owing  to  the  courage  and  talents  of  Clive,  had  been 
hailed  with  great  delight.  The  young  captain  was  known 
at  the  India  House  by  the  honorable  nick-name  of  General 
Clive,  and  was  toasted  by  that  appellation  at  the  feasts  of 
the  Directors.  On  his  arrival  in  England,  he  found  himself 
an  object  of  general  interest  and  admiration.  The  East 
India  Company  thanked  him  for  his  services  in  the  warmest 
terms,  and  bestowed  on  him  a sword  set  with  diamonds. 
With  rare  delicacy,  he  refused  to  receive  this  token  of  grat- 
itude, unless  a similar  compliment  were  paid  to  his  friend 
and  commander,  Lawrence. 

It  may  easily  be  supposed  that  Clive  was  most  cordially 
welcomed  home  by  his  family,  who  were  delighted  by  his 
success,  though  they  seem  to  have  been  hardly  able  to  com- 
prehend how  their  naughty  idle  Bobby  had  become  so  great 
a man.  His  father  had  been  singularly  hard  of  belief.  Not 
until  the  news  of  the  defence  of  Arcot  arrived  in  England 
was  the  old  gentleman  heard  to  growl  out  that,  after  all,  the 
booby  had  something  in  him.  His  expressions  of  ajoproba- 
tion  became  stronger  and  stronger  as  news  arrived  of  one 
brilliant  exploit  after  another ; and  he  was  at  length  im- 
moderately fond  and  proud  of  his  son. 

Clive’s  relations  had  very  substantial  reasons  for  re- 
joicing at  his  return.  Considerable  sums  of  prize  money 
had  fallen  to  his  share ; and  he  had  brought  home  a moder- 
ate fortune,  part  of  which  he  expended  in  extricating  his 
father  from  pecuniary  difficulties,  and  in  redeeming  the 
family  estate.  The  remainder  he  appears  to  have  dissipated 
in  the  course  of  about  two  years.  He  lived  splendidly,  dressed 
gayly  even  for  those  times,  kept  a carriage  and  saddle  horses, 
and,  not  content  with  these  ways  of  getting  rid  of  his  money, 
resorted  to  the  most  speedy  and  effectual  of  all  modes  of 
evacuation,  a contested  election  followed  by  a petition. 

At  the  time  of  the  general  election  of  1754,  the  govern- 


LORD  CLIVE. 


413 


inent  was  in  a very  singular  state.  There  was  scarcely  any 
formal  opposition.  The  Jacobites  had  been  cowed  by  the 
issue  of  the  last  rebellion.  The  Tory  party  had  fallen  into 
utter  contempt.  It  had  been  deserted  by  all  the  men  of 
talents  who  had  belonged  to  it,  and  had  scarcely  given  a 
symptom  of  life  during  some  years.  The  small  faction 
which  had  been  held  together  by  the  influence  and  promises 
of  Prince  Frederic,  hadbeen  dispersed  by  his  death.  Almost 
every  public  man  of  distinguished  talents  in  the  kingdom, 
whatever  his  early  connections  might  have  been,  was  in 
office,  and  called  himself  a Whig.  But  this  extraordinary 
appearance  of  concord  was  quite  delusive.  The  administra* 
tion  itself  was  distracted  by  bitter  enmities  and  conflicting 
pretensions.  The  chief  object  of  its  members  was  to  de< 
press  and  supplant  each  other.  The  prime  minister,  New* 
castle,  weak,  timid,  jealous,  and  perfidious,  was  at  once 
detested  and  despised  by  some  of  the  most  important  mem- 
bers of  his  government,  and  by  none  more  than  by  Henry 
Fox,  the  Secretary  at  War.  This  able,  daring  and  ambi- 
tious man  seized  every  opportunity  of  crossing  the  First  Lord 
of  the  Treasury,  from  whom  he  well  knew  that  he  had  little 
to  dread  and  little  to  hope  ; for  Newcastle  was  through  life 
equally  afraid  of  breaking  with  men  of  parts  and  of  pro* 
moting  them. 

Newcastle  had  set  his  heart  on  returning  two  members 
for  St.  Michael,  one  of  those  wretched  Cornish  boroughs 
which  were  swept  away  by  the  Reform  Act  in  1832.  He 
was  opposed  by  Lord  Sandwich,  whose  influence  had  long 
been  paramount  there  : and  Fox  exerted  himself  strenuously 
in  Sandwich’s  behalf.  Clive,  who  had  been  introduced  to 
Fox,  and  very  kindly  received  by  him,  was  brought  forward 
on  the  Sandwich  interest,  and  was  returned.  But  a petition 
was  presented  against  the  return,  and  was  backed  by  tho 
whole  influence  of  the  Duke  of  Newcastle. 

The  case  was  heard,  according  to  the  usage  of  that  time, 
before  a committee  of  the  whole  House.  Questions  respect- 
ing elections  were  then  considered  merely  as  party  ques- 
tions. Judicial  impartiality  was  not  even  affected.  Sir 
Robert  Walpole  was  in  the  habit  of  saying  openly  that,  in 
election  battles,  there  ought  to  be  no  quarter.  On  the  pres- 
ent occasion  the  excitement  was  great.  The  matter  really 
at  issue  was,  not  whether  Clive  had  been  properly  or  im- 
properly returned,  but  whether  Newcastle  or  Fox  was  to  be 
Blaster  of  the  new  House  of  Commons,  and  consequently 


41-i  macaulat’s  miscellaneous  wettings. 

first  minister.  The  contest  was  long  and  obstinate,  and 
success  seemed  to  lean  sometimes  to  one  side  and  sometimes 
to  the  other.  Fox  put  forth  all  his  rare  powers  of  debate, 
beat  half  the  lawyers  in  the  House  at  their  own  weapons, 
and  carried  division  after  division  against  the  whole  in- 
fluence of  the  Treasury.  The  committee  decided  in  Clive’s 
favor.  But  when  the  resolution  was  reported  to  the  House, 
things  took  a different  course.  The  remnant  of  the  Tory 
Opposition,  contemptible  as  it  was,  had  yet  sufficient  weight 
to  turn  the  scale  between  the  nicely  balanced  parties  of 
Newcastle  and  Fox.  Newcastle  the  Tories  could  only  de- 
spise. Fox  they  hated,  as  the  boldest  and  most  subtle  poli> 
tician  and  the  ablest  debater  among  the  Whigs,  as  the 
steady  friend  of  Walpole,  as  the  devoted  adherent  of  the 
Duke  of  Cumberland.  After  wavering  till  the  last  moment 
they  determined  to  vote  in  a body  with  the  Prime  Minister’s 
friends.  The  consequence  was  that  the  House,  by  a small 
majority,  rescinded  the  decision  of  the  committee,  and  Clive 
was  unseated. 

Ejected  from  Parliament,  and  straitened  in  his  means, 
he  naturally  began  to  look  again  towards  India.  The  Com- 
pany and  the  Government^ were  eager  to  avail  themselves  of 
his  services.  A treaty  favorable  to  England  had  indeed  been 
concluded  in  the  Carnatic.  Dupleix  had  been  superseded, 
and  had  returned  with  the  wreck  of  his  immense  fortune 
to  Europe,  where  calumny  and  chicanery  soon  hunted  him 
to  his  grave.  But  many  signs  indicated  that  a war  between 
France  and  Great  Britain  was  at  hand ; and  it  was  there- 
fore thought  desirable  to  send  an  able  commander  to  the 
Company’s  settlements  in  India.  The  Directors  appointed 
Clive  governor  of  Fort  St.  David.  The  King  gave  him  the 
commission  of  a lieutenant-colonel  in  the  British  army,  and 
in  1755  he  again  sailed  for  Asia. 

The  first  service  on  which  he  was  employed  after  his  re- 
turn to  the  East  was  the  reduction  of  the  stronghold  of 
Ghcriah.  This  fortress,  built  on  a craggy  promontory,  and 
almost  surrounded  by  the  ocean,  was  the  den  of  a pirate 
named  Angria,  whose  barks  had  long  been  the  terror  of 
the  Arabian  Gulf.  Admiral  Watson,  who  commanded  the 
English  squadron  in  the  Eastern  seas,  burned  Angria’s  fleet, 
while  Clive  attacked  the  fastness  by  land.  The  place  soon 
fell,  and  a booty  of  a hundred  and  fifty  thousand  pounds 
sterling  was  divided  among  the  conquerors. 

After  this  exploit,  Clive  proceeded  to  his  government  of 


LORD  CLIVE. 


415 


Fort  St.  David.  Before  he  had  been  there  two  months,  he 
received  intelligence  which  called  forth  all  the  energy  of 
his  bold  and  active  mind. 

Of  the  provinces  which  had  been  subject  to  the  house  of 
Tamerlane,  the  wealthiest  was  Bengal.  No  part  of  India 
possessed  such  natural  advantages  both  for  agriculture  and 
for  commerce.  The  Ganges,  rushing  through  a hundred 
channels  to  the  sea,  has  formed  a vast  plain  of  rich  mould 
which,  even  under  the  tropical  sky,  rivals  the  verdure  of  an 
English  April.  The  rice  fields  yield  an  increase  such  as  is 
elsewhere  unknown.  Spices,  sugar,  vegetable  oils,  are  pro* 
duced  with  marvellous  exuberance.  The  rivers  afford  an 
inexhaustible  supply  of  fish.  The  desolate  islands  along  the 
sea-coast,  overgrown  by  noxious  vegetation,  and  swarming 
with  deer  and  tigers,  supply  the  cultivated  districts  with  abun- 
dance of  salt.  The  great  stream  which  fertilizes  the  soil  is, 
at  the  same  time,  the  chief  highway  of  Eastern  commerce. 
On  its  banks,  and  on  tho^e  of  its  tributary  waters,  are  the 
wealthiest  marts,  the  most  splendid  capitals,  and  the  most  sa- 
cred shrines  of  India.  The  tyranny  of  man  had  for  ages  strug- 
gled in  vain  against  the  overflowing  bounty  of  nature.  In 
spite  of  the  Mussulman  despot  and  the  Mahratta  freebooter, 
Bengal  was  known  through  the  East  as  the  garden  of  Eden, 
as  the  rich  kingdom.  Its  population  multiplied  exceedingly. 
Distant  provinces  were  nourished  from  the  overflowing  of  its 
granaries ; and  the  noble  ladies  of  London  and  Paris  were 
clothed  in  the  delicate  produce  of  its  looms.  The  race  by 
whom  this  rich  tract  was  peopled,  enervated  by  a soft  climate 
and  accustomed  to  peaceful  employments,  bore  the  same  re- 
lation to  other  Asiatics  which  the  Asiatics  generally  bear  to 
the  bold  and  energetic  children  of  Europe.  The  Castilians 
have  a proverb,  that  in  Valencia  the  earth  is  water  and  the 
men  women ; and  the  description  is  at  least  equally  appli- 
cable to  the  vast  plain  of  the  Lower  Ganges.  Whatever  the 
Bengalee  does  he  does  languidly.  His  favorite  pursuits  are 
sedentary.  He  shrinks  from  bodily  exertion ; and,  though  vol- 
uble in  dispute  and  singularly  pertinacious  in  the  war  of  chi- 
cane, he  seldom  engages  in  a personal  conflict,  and  scarcely 
ever  enlists  as  a soldier.  We  doubt  whether  there  be  a 
hundred  genuine  Bengalees  in  the  whole  army  of  the  East 
India  Company.  There  never,  perhaps,  existed  a people  so 
thoroughly  fitted  by  nature  and  by  habit  for  a foreign  yoke. 

The  great  commercial  companies  of  Europe  had  long 
possessed  factories  in  Bengal.  The  French  were  settled,  as 


416 


macaulay’s  miscella negus  writings. 


they  still  are,  at  Chandernagore  on  the  Iloogley.  Higher  up 
the  stream  the  patch  traders  held  Chinsurah.  Nearer  to 
the  sea,,  the  English  had  built  Fort  William.  A church  and 
ample  warehouses  rose  in  the  vicinity.  A row  of  spacious 
houses,  belonging  to  the  chief  factors  of  the  East  India  Com- 
pany, lined  the  banks  of  the  river;  and  in  the  neighborhood 
had  sprung  up  a large  and  busy  native  town,  where  some 
Hindoo  merchants  of  great  opulence  had  fixed  their  hbode. 
But  the  tract  now  cohered  by  the  palaces  of  Chowringhee 
contained  only  a few  miserable  huts  thatched  with  straw. 

A jungle,  abandoned  to  waterfowl  and  alligators,  covered 
the  site  of  the  present  Citadel,  and  the  Course,  which  is  now 
daily  crowded  at  sunset  with  the  gayest  equipages  of  Cal- 
cutta. For  the  ground  on  which  the  settlement  stood,  the 
English,  like  other  great  landholders,  paid  rent  to  the  gov- 
ernment ; and  they  were,  like  other  great  landholders,  per- 
mitted to  exercise  a certain  jurisdiction  within  their  domain. 

The  great  province  of  Bengah  together  with  Orissa  and 
Bahar,  had  long  been  governecf  by  a viceroy,  whom  the 
English  called  Aiiverdy  Khan,  and  who,  like  the  other 
viceroys  of  the  Mogul,  had  become  virtually  independent, 
lie  died  in  1756,  and  the  sovereignty  descended  to  his 
grandson,  a youth  under  twenty  years  of  age,  who  bore  the 
name  of  Surajah  Dowlah.  Oriental  despots  are  perhaps 
the  worst  class  of  human  beings  ; and  this  unhappy  boy  was 
one  of  the  worst  specimens  of  his  class.  His  understanding 
was  naturally  feeble,  and  his  temper  naturally  unamiable.  . 
His  education  had  been  such  as  would  have  enervated  even 
a vigorous  intellect,  and  perverted  even  a generous  disposi- 
tion. lie  was  unreasonable,  because  nobody  ever  dared  to 
reason  with  him,  and  selfish,  because  be  had  never  been 
made  to  feel  himself  dependent  on  the  good  will  of  others. 
Early  debauchery  had  unnerved  his  body  and  his  mind.  He  : 
indulged  immoderately  in  the  use  of  ardent  spirits,  which 
inflamed  his  weak  brain  almost  to  madness.  His  chosen 
companions  were  flatterers  sprung  from  the  dregs  of  the 
peop-o,  and  recommended  by  nothing  but  buffoonery  and  : 
servility.  It  is  said  that  he  had  arrived  at  that  last  stage  of 
human  depravity,  when  cruelty  becomes  pleasing  for  its  own 
sake,  when  the  sight  of  pain  as  pain,  where  no  advantage  is 
to  be  gained,  no  offence  punished,  no  danger  averted,  is  an 
agreeable  excitement.  It  had  early  been  his  amusement  to 
torture  beasts  and  birds ; and  when  he  grew  up,  he  enjoyed 
with  still  keener  relish  the  misery  of  las  feliow*creaturea. 


LORD  CLIVE. 


417 


From  a child  Surajah  Dowlah  had  hated  the  English. 
It  was  his  whim  to  do  so ; and  his  whims  were  never  op- 
posed. He  had  also  formed  a very  exaggerated  notion  of 
the  wealth  which  might  be  obtained  by  plundering  them  ; 
and  his  feeble  and  uncultivated  mind  was  incapable  of  per- 
ceiving that  the  riches  of  Calcutta,  had  they  been  even 
greater  than  he  imagined,  would  not  compensate  him  for 
what  he  must  lose,  if  the  European  trade,  of  which  Ben- 
gal was  a chief  seat,  should  be  driven  by  his  violence  to 
some  other  quarter.  Pretexts  for  a quarrel  were  readily 
found.  The  English,  in  expectation  of  a war  with  France, 
had  begun  to  fortify  their  settlement  without  special  per- 
mission from  the  Nabob.  A rich  native,  whom  he  longed 
to  plunder,  had  taken  refuge  at  Calcutta,  and  had  not  been 
delivered  up.  On  such  grounds  as  these  Surajah  Dowlah 
marched  with  a great  army  against  Fort  William. 

The  servants  of  the  Company  at  Madras  had  been  forced 
by  Dupleix  to  become  statesmen  and  soldiers.  Those  in 
Bengal  were  still  mere  traders,  and  were  terrified  and  be- 
wildered by  the  approaching  danger.  The  governor,  who 
had  heard  much  of  Surajah  Dowlah’s  cruelty,  was  fright- 
ened out  of  his  wits,  jumped  into  a boat  and  took  refuge  in 
the  nearest  ship.  The  military  commandant  thought  that 
he  could  not  do  better  than  follow  so  good  an  example.  The 
fort  was  taken  after  a feeble  resistance ; and  great  numbers 
of  the  English  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  conquerors.  The 
Nabob  seated  himself  with  regal  pomp  in  the  principal  hall 
of  the  factory,  and  ordered  Mr.  Hoi  well,  the  first  in  rank 
among  the  prisoners,  to  be  brought  before  him’.  His  High- 
ness talked  about  the  insolence  of  the  English,  and  grumbled 
at  the  smallness  of  the  treasure  which  he  had  found ; but 
promised  to  spare  their  lives,  and  retired  to  rest. 

Then  was  committed  that  great  crime,  memorable  for 
its  singular  atrocity,  memorable  for  the  terrible  retribution 
by  which  it  was  followed.  The  English  captives  were  left 
at  the  mercy  of  the  guards,  and  the  guards  determined  to 
secure  them  for  the  night  in  the  prison  of  the  garrison,  a 
chamber  known  by  the  fearful  name  of  the  Black  Hole. 
Even  for  a single  European  malefactor,  the  dungeon  would, 
in  such  a climate,  have  been  too  close  and  narrow.  . The 
space  was  only  twenty  feet  square.  The  air-holes  were 
small  and  obstructed.  It  was  the  summer  solstice,  the  sea- 
son when  the  fierce  heat  of  Bengal  can  scarcely  be  rendered 
tolerable  to  natives  of  England  by  lofty  halls  and  by  the 
Vol.  XI.— 27 


418 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


constant  waving  of  fans.  The  number  of  the  prisoners  was 
one  hundred  and  forty-six.  When  they  were  ordered  to 
enter  the  cell,  they  imagined  that  the  soldiers  were  joking  * 
and,  being  in  high  spirits  on  account  of  the  promise  of  the 
Nabob  to  spare  their  lives,  they  laughed  and  jested  at  the 
absurdity  of  the  notion.  They  soon  discovered  their  n is- 
take.  They  expostulated ; they  entreated ; but  in  vain. 
The  guards  threatened  to  cut  down  all  who  hesitated. 
The  captives  were  driven  into  the  cell  at  the  point  of  the 
sword,  and  the  door  was  instantly  shut  and  locked  upon 
them. 

Nothing  in  history  or  fiction,  not  even  the  story  which 
Ugolino  told  in  the  sea  of  everlasting  ice,  after  he  had 
wiped  his  bloody  lips  on  the  scalp  of  his  murderer,  ap- 
proaches the  horrors  which  were  recounted  by  the  few  sur- 
vivors, of  that  night.  They  cried  for  mercy.  They  strove 
to  burst  the  door.  IXolwell  who,  even  in  that  extremity, 
retained  some  presence  of  mind,  offered  large  bribes  to  the 
gaolers.  But  the  answer  was  that  nothing  could  be  done 
without  the  Nabob’s  orders,  that  the  Nabob  was  asleep,  and 
that  he  would  be  angry  if  anybody  woke  him.  Then  the 
prisoners  went  mad  with  despair.  They  trampled  each 
other  down,  fought  for  the  places  at  the  windows,  fought 
for  the  pittance  of  water  with  which  the  cruel  mercy  of  the 
murderers  mocked  their  agonies,  raved,  prayed,  blasphemed, 
implored  the  guards  to  fire  among  them.  The  gaolers  in 
the  mean  time  held  lights  to  the  bars,  and  shouted  with 
laughter  at  the  frantic  struggles  of  their  victims.  At  length 
the  tumult  died  away  in  low  gaspings  and  moanings.  The 
day  broke.  The  Nabob  had  slept  off  his  debauch  and  per- 
mitted the  door  to  be  opened.  But  it  was  some  time  be- 
fore the  soldiers  could  make  a lane  for  the  survivors,  by 
piling  up  on  each  side  the  heaps  of  corpses  on  which  the 
burning  climate  had  already  begun  to  do  its  loathsome  work. 
When  at  length  a passage  was  made,  twenty-three  ghastly 
figures,  such  as  their  own  mothers  would  not  have  known, 
staggered  one  by  one  out  of  the  charnel-house.  A pit  was 
instantly  dug.  The  dead  bodies,  a hundred  and  twenty- 
three  in  number,  were  flung  into  it  promiscuously  and  cov- 
ered up. 

But  these  things  which,  after  the  lapse  of  more  than 
eighty  years,  cannot  be  told  or  read  without  horror,  awak- 
ened neither  remorse  nor  pity  in  the  bosom  of  the  savage 
Nabob,  He  inflicted  no  punishment  on  the  murderers* 


tout}  CLIWK* 


419 


He  showed  no  tenderness  to  the  survivors.  Some  of  them 
indeed,  from  whom  nothing  was  to  be  got,  were  suffered  to 
depart ; but  those  from  whom  it  was  thought  that  anything 
could  be  extorted  were  treated  with  execrable  cruelty.  Hol- 
well,  unable  to  walk,  was  carried  before  the  tyrant,  who  re- 
oroached  him,  threatened  him,  and  sent  him  up  the  country 
In  irons,  together  with  some  other  gentlemen  who  were  sus- 
pected of  knowing  more  than  they  chose  to  tell  about  the 
treasures  of  the  Company.  These  persons,  still  bowed  do  v n 
by  the  sufferings  of  that  great  agony,  were  lodged  in  mis- 
erable sheds,  and  fed  only  with  grain  and  water,  till  at 
length  tha  intercessions  of  the  female  relations  of  the  Nabob 
procured  their  release.  One  Englishwoman  had  survived  that 
night.  She  wTas  placed  in  the  harem  of  the  Prince  at 
Moorshedabad. 

Surajah  Dowlah,  in  the  mean  time,  sent  letters  to  his 
nominal  sovereign  at  Delhi,  describing  the  late  conquest  in 
the  most  pompous  language.  He  placed  a garrison  in  Fort 
William,  forbade  Englishmen  to  dwell  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  directed  that,  in  memory  of  Ids  great  actions,  Calcutta 
should  thenceforward  be  called  Alinagore,  that  is  to  say,  the 
Port  of  God. 

In  August  the  news  of  the  fall  of  Calcutta  reached  Ma- 
dras, and  excited  the  fiercest  and  bitterest  resentment.  The 
cry  of  the  whole  settlement  was  for  vengeance.  Within 
forty-eight  hours  after  the  arrival  of  the  intelligence  it  was 
determined  that  an  expedition  should  be  sent  to  the  Ilooglcy, 
and  that  Clive  should  be  at  the  head  of  the  land  forces.  The 
naval  armament  was  under  the  command  of  Admiral  Wat- 
son. Nine  hundred  English  infantry,  fine  troops  and  full  of 
spirit,  and  fifteen  hundred  sepoys,  composed  the  army  which 
sailed  to  punish  a Prince  who  had  more  subjects  thanLewds 
the  Fifteenth  or  the  Empress  Maria  Theresa.  In  October 
the  expedition  sailed ; but  it  had  to  make  its  way  against 
adverse  winds,  and  did  not  reach  Bengal  till  December. 

The  Nabob  was  revelling  in  fancied  security  at  Mojr- 
shedabad.  He  was  so  profoundly  ignorant  of  the  state  of 
foreign  countries  that  lie  often  used  to  say  that  there  were 
not  ten  thousand  men  in  all  Europe ; and  it  had  never  oc- 
curred to  him  as  possible,  that  the  English  would  dare  to  in- 
vade his  dominions.  But,  though  undisturbed  by  any  fear 
of  their  military  power,  he  began  to  miss  them  greatly.  His 
revenues  fell  off ; and  his  ministers  succeeded  in  making  him 
understand  that  a niler  may  sometimes  find  it  more  profit 


420 


macaulay9s  miscellaneous  wetting. 


able  to  protect  traders  in  the  open  enjoyment  of  their  gains 
than  to  put  them  to  the  torture  for  the  purpose  of  discover- 
ing hidden  chests  of  gold  and  jewels.  He  was  already  dis- 
posed to  permit  the  Company  to  resume  its  mercantile  opera- 
tions in  his  country,  when  he  received  the  news  that  an 
English  armament  was  in  the  Hoogley.  lie  instantly  ordered 
all  his  troops  to  assemble  at  Moorshedabad,  and  marcl  ed 
towards  Calcutta. 

Clive  had  commenced  operations  with  his  usual  vigor 
He  took  Budgebudge,  routed  the  garrison  of  Fort  William, 
recovered  Calcutta,  stormed  and  sacked  Hoogley.  The 
Nabob,  already  disposed  to  make  some  concessions  to  the 
English,  was  confirmed  in  his  pacific  disposition  by  these 
proofs  of  their  power  and  spirit.  He  accordingly  made  over- 
tures to  the  chiefs  of  the  invading  armament,  and  offered  to 
restore  the  factory,  and  to  give  compensation  to  those  whom 
he  had  despoiled. 

Clive’s  profession  was  war ; and  he  felt  that  there  was 
something  discreditable  in  an  accommodation  with  Surajah 
Dowlah.  But  his  power  was  limited.  A committee,  chiefly  *: 
composed  of  servants  of  the  Company  who  had  fled  from 
Calcutta,  had  the  principal  direction  of  affairs  ; and  these 
persons  were  eager  to  be  restored  to  their  posts  and  compen- 
sated for  their  losses.  The  government  of  Madras,  apprised 
that  war  had  commenced  in  Europe,  and  apprehensive  of  an 
attack  from  the  French,  became  impatient  for  the  return  of  i 
the  armament.  The  promises  of  the  Nabob  were  large,  the 
chances  of  a contest  doubtful;  and  Clive  consented  to  treat,  | 
though  he  expressed  his  regret  that  things  should  not  be  con-  i 
eluded  in  so  glorious  a manner  as  he  could  have  wished. 

With  this  negotiation  commences  a new  chapter  in  the  I 
life  of  Clive.  Hitherto  lie  had  been  merely  a soldier  carry-  | 
ing  into  effect,  with  eminent  ability  and  valor,  the  plans  of 
others.  Henceforth  he  is  to  be  chiefly  regarded  as  a states-  | 
man ; and  his  military  movements  are  to  be  considered  as 
subordinate  to  his  political  designs.  That  in  his  new  capacity 
he  displayed  great  ability,  and  obtained  great  success,  is  un- 
questionable. But  it  is  also  unquestionable  that  the  trans- 
actions in  which  he  now  began  to  take  a part  have  left  a 
stain  on  his  moral  character. 

We  can  by  no  means  agree  with  Sir  John  Malcolm,  who  r 
is  obstinately  resolved  to  see  nothing  but  honor  and  integrity 
in  the  conduct  of  his  hero.  But  we  can  has  little  agree  with 
Mr.  Mill,  who  lias  gone  so  far  as  to  say  that  Clive  was  a 


.LORD  CLIVE. 


42  j 


man  lt  to  whom  deception,  when  it  suited  his  purpose,  never 
cost  a pang.”  Clive  seems  to  as  to  have  been  constitution- 
ally the  very  opposite  of  a knave,  bold  even  to  temerity, 
sincere  even  to  indiscretion,  hearty  in  friendship,  open  in 
enmity.  Neither  in  his  private  life,  nor  in  those  parts  of  his 
public  life  in  which  he  had  to  do  with  his  countrymen,  do 
we  find  any  signs  of  a propensity  to  cunning.  On  the  con- 
trary, in  all  the  disputes  in  which  he  was  engaged  as  an 
Englishman  against  Englishmen,  from  his  boxing-matches 
at  school  to  those  stormy  altercations  at  the  India  House 
and  in  Parliament  amidst  which  liis  later  years  were  passed, 
his  very  faults  were  those  of  a high  and  magnanimous  spirit. 
The  truth  seems  to  have  been  that  he  considered  Oriental 
politics  as  a game  in  which  nothing  was  unfair.  He  knew 
that  the  standard  of  morality  among  the  natives  of  India 
differed  widely  from  that  established  in  England.  He  knew 
that  he  had  to  deal  with  men  destitute  of  what  in  Europe  is 
called  honor,  with  men  who  would  give  any  promise  with- 
out hesitation,  and  break  any  jiromise  without  shame,  with 
men  who  would  unscrupulously  employ  corruption,  perjury, 
forgery,  to  compass  their  ends.  His  letters  show  that  the 
great  difference  between  Asiatic  and  European  morality  was 
constantly  in  his  thoughts.  He  seems  to  have  imagined, 
most  erroneously  in  our  opinion,  that  he  could  effect  nothing 
against  such  adversaries,  if  he  was  content  to  be  bound  by 
ties  from  which  they  were  free,  if  he  went  on  telling  truth, 
and  hearing  none,  if  he  fulfilled,  to  his  own  hurt,  all  his  en- 
gagements with  confederates  who  never  kept  an  engage- 
ment that  was  not  to  their  advantage.  Accordingly  this 
man,  in  the  other  parts  of  his  life  an  honorable  English  gen- 
tleman and  a soldier,  was  no  sooner  matched  against  an 
Indian  intriguer,  than  he  became  himself  an  Indian  intriguer, 
and  descended,  without  scruple,  to  falsehood,  to  hypocritical 
caresses,  to  the  substitution  of  documents,  and  to  the  counter- 
feiting of  hands. 

The  negotiations  between  the  English  and  the  Nabob 
were  carried  on  chiefly  by  two  agents,  Mr.  Watts,  a servant 
ol  the  Company,  and  a Bengalee  of  the  name  of  Omichund. 
This  Omichund  had  been  one  of  the  wealthiest  native  mer- 
I chants  resident  at  Calcutta,  and  had  sustained  great  losses 
in  consequence  of  the  Nabob’s  expedition  against  that  place, 
j In  the  course  of  his  commercial  transactions,  he  had  seen 
much  of  the  English,  and  was  peculiarly  qualified  to  serve 
as  a medium  of  communication  between  them  and  a native 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous 

court.  He  possessed  great  influence  with  his  own  race,  and 
had  in  large  measure  the  Hindoo  talents,  quick  observation, 
tact,  dexterity,  perseverance,  and  the  Hindoo  vices,  servility, 
greediness,  and  treachery. 

The  Nabob  behaved  with  all  tlie  faithlessness  of  an  Indian 
statesman,  and  with  all  the  levity  of  a boy  whose  mind  had 
been  enfeebled  by  power  apd  self-indulgence.  He  promised, 
retracted,  hesitated,  evaded.  At  one  time  he  advanced 
with  his  army  in  a threatening  manner  towards  Calcutta  : 
but  when  he  saw  the  resolute  front  which  the  English  pre- 
sented, lie  fell  back  in  alarm,  and  consented  to  make  peace 
with  them  on  their  own  terms.  The  treaty  was  no  sooner 
concluded  than  lie  formed  new  designs  against  them.  He 
intrigued  with  the  French  authorities  at  Chandernagore. 
He  invited  Bussy  to  march  from  the  Deccan  to  the  Iloogley, 
and  to  drive  the  English  out  of  Bengal.  All  this  was  well 
known  to  Clive  and  Watson.  They  determined  accordingly 
to  strike  a decisive  blow,  and  to  attack  Chandernagore, 
before  the  force  there  could  be  strengthened  by  new  arrivals, 
cither  from  the  south  of  India,  or  from  Europe.  Watson 
directed  the  expedition  by  water,  Clive  by  land.  The  suc- 
cess of  the  combined  movements  was  rapid  and  complete. 
The  fort,  the  garrison,  the  artillery,  the  military  stores,  all 
fell  into  the  hands  of  the  English.  Nearly  five  hundred 
European  troops  were  amosg  the  prisoners. 

The  Nabob  had  feared  and  hated  the  English,  even  while 
he  was  still  able  to  oppose  to  them  their  French  rivals.  The 
French  were  now  vanquished  ; and  he  began  to  regard  the 
English  with  still  greater  fear  and  still  greater  hatred.  His 
weak  and  unprincipled  mind  oscillated  between  servility  and 
insolence.  One  day  he  sent  a large  sum  to  Calcutta,  as  part 
of  the  compensation  due  for  the  wrongs  which  he  had  com- 
mitted. The  ilext  day  he  sent  a present  of  jewels  to  Bussy, 
exhorting  that  distinguished  officer  to  hasten  to  protect 
Bengal  “against  Clive,  the  daring  in  war,  on  whom,”  says 
his  Highness,  “may  all  bad  fortune  attend.”  He  ordered 
his  army  to  march  against  the  English.  He  countermanded 
his  orders.  He  tore  Clive’s  letters.  He  then  sent  answers  in 
the  most  florid  language  of  compliment.  He  ordered  Watts 
out  of  his  presence  and  threatened  to  impale  him.  He  again 
sent  for  Watts,  and  begged  pardon  for  the  insult.  In  the 
mean  time,  his  wretched  maladministration,  his  folly,  his  dis- 
solute manners,  and  his  love  of  the  lowest  company,  had 
disgusted  all  classes  of  his  subjects,  soldiers,  traders,  civil 


LORD  CLIVE. 


423 


functionaries,  the  proud  and  ostentatious  Mahommedans, 
the  timid,  supple,  parsimonious  Hindoos.  A formidable 
confederacy  was  formed  against  him,  in  which  were  included 
Royduliub,  the  minister  of  finance,  Meer  Jaffier,  the  princi- 
pal commander  of  the  troops,  and  Jugget  Seit,  the  richest 
banker  in  India.  The  plot  was  confided  to  the  English 
agents,  and  a communication  was  opened  between  the  mal- 
contents at  Moorshedabad  and  the  committee  at  Calcutta. 

In  the  committee  there  was  much  hesitation  ; but  Clive’s 
voice  was  given  in  favor  of  the  conspirators,  and  his  vigor 
and  firmness  bore  down  all  opposition.  It  was  determined 
that  the  English  should  lend  their  powerful  assistance  to 
depose  Surajali  Dowlah,  and  to  place  Meer  Jaffier  on  the 
throne  of  Bengal.  In  return,  Meer  Jaffier  promised  ample 
compensation  to  the  Company  and  its  servants,  and  a liberal 
donative  to  the  army,  the  navy,  and  the  committee.  The 
odious  vices  of  Surajali  Dowlah,  the  wrongs  which  the 
English  had  suffered  at  his  hands,  the  dangers  to  which 
our  trade  l/iust  have  been  exposed,  had  he  continued  to 
reign,  appear  to  us  fully  to  justify  the  resolution  of  deposing 
him.  But  nothing  can  justify  the  dissimulation  which 
Clive  stooped  to  practice.  He  wrote  to  Surajah  Dowlah  in 
terms  so  affectionate  that  they  for  a time  lulled  that 
weak  prince  into  perfect  security.  The  same  courier  who 
carried  this  “ soothing  letter,”  as  Clive  calls  it,  to  the  Is  abob, 
carried  to  Mr.  W atts  a letter  in  the  following  terms : “ Tell 
Meer  Jaffier  to  fear  nothing.  I will  join  him  with  five  thou- 
sand men  who  never  turned  their  backs.  Assure  him  I will 
march  night  and  day  to  his  assistance,  and  stand  by  him  as 
long  as  I have  a man  left.” 

It  was  impossible  that  a plot  which  had  so  many  ramifi- 
cations should  long  remain  entirely  concealed.  Enough 
reached  the  ears  of  the  Nabob  to  arouse  his  suspicions.  But 
he  was  soon  quieted  by  the  fictions  and  artifices  Avhich  the 
inventive  genius  of  Omichund  produced  with  miraculous 
readiness.  All  was  going  well ; the  plot  was  nearly  ripe  ; 
when  Clive  learned  that  Omichund  was  likely  to  play  false. 
The  artful  Bengalee  had  been  promised  a liberal  compensa- 
tion for  all  that  he  had  lost  at  Calcutta.  But  this  would  not 
satisfy  him.  His  services  had  been  great.  He  held  the 
thread  of  the  whole  intrigue.  By  one  word  breathed  in  the 
ear  of  Surajah  Dowlah,  he  could  undo  all  that  he  had  done. 
The  lives  of  Watt,  of  Meer  Jaffier,  of  all  the  conspirators, 
were  at  his  mercy $ and  he  determined  to  take  advantage 


424 


macaulat’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


of  his  situation  and  to  make  his  own  terms.  He  demanded 
three  hundred  thousand  pounds  sterling  as  the  price  of  his 
secrecy  and  of  his  assistance.  The  committee,  incensed  by 
the  treachery  and  appalled  by  the  danger,  knew  not  what 
course  to  take.  But  Clive  was  more  than  Omichund’s 
match  in  Omichund’s  own  arts.  The  man,  he  said,  was  a 
villain.  Any  artifice  which  would  defeat  such  knavery  was 
justifiable.  The  best  course  would  be  to  promise  what  was 
asked.  Omichund  would  soon  be  at  their  mercy  ; and  then 
they  might  punish  him  by  withholding  from  him,  not  only 
the  bribe  which  he  now  demanded,  but  also  the  compensa- 
tion which  all  the  other  sufferers  of  Calcutta  were  to 
receive. 

His  advice  was  taken.  But  how  was  the  wary  and 
sagacious  Hindoo  to  be  deceived  ? He  had  demanded  that 
an  article  touching  his  claims  should  be  inserted  in  the 
treaty  between  Meer  Jaffier  and  the  English,  and  he  would 
not  be  satisfied  unless  he  saw  it  with  his  own  eyes.  Clive 
had  an  expedient  ready.  Two  treaties  were  drawn  up,  one 
on  white  paper,  the  other  on  red,  the  former  real,  the  latter 
fictitious.  In  the  former  Omichund’s  name  was  not  men- 
tioned ; the  latter,  which  was  to  be  shown  to  him,  contained 
a stipulation  in  his  favor. 

But  another  difficulty  arose.  Admiral  Watson  had 
scruples  against  signing  the  red  treaty.  Omichund’s  vigi- 
lance and  acuteness  were  such  that  the  absence  of  so  impor- 
tant a name  would  probably  awaken  suspicions.  But  Clive 
was  not  a man  to  do  anything  by  halves.  We  almost  blush 
to  write  it.  lie  forged  Admiral  Watson’s  name. 

All  was  now  ready  for  action.  Mr.  Watts  fled  secretly 
from  Moorsliedabad.  Clive  put  his  troops  in  motion,  and 
wrote  to  the  Nabob  in  atone  very  different  from  that  of  his 
previous  letters.  He  set  forth  all  the  wrongs  which  the 
British  had  suffered,  offered  to  submit  the  points  in  dispute 
to  the  arbitration  of  Meer  Jaffier,  and  concluded  by  announc- 
ing that,  as  the  rains  were  about  to  set  in,  he  and  his  men 
Avould  do  themselves  the  honor  of  waiting  on  his  Highness 
for  an  answer. 

Surajah  Dowlah  instantly  assembled  his  whole  force, 
and  marched  to  encounter  the  English.  It  had  been  agreed 
that  Meer  Jaffier  should  separate  himself  from  the  Nabob, 
and  carry  over  his  division  to  Clive.  But,  as  the  decisive 
moment  approached,  the  fears  of  the  conspirator  over- 
powered his  ambition.  Clive  hae  advanced  to  Cossimbuzar ; 


LORD  CLIVE. 


425 


the  Nabob  lay  with  a mighty  power  a few  miles  off  at 
Piassey ; and  still  Meer  Jaffier  delayed  to  fulfil  his  engage- 
ments, and  returned  evasive  answers  to  the  earnest  remon- 
strances of  the  English  general. 

Clive  was  in  a painfully  anxious  situation.  He  could 
place  no  confidence  in  the  sincerity  or  in  the  courage  of  his 
confederate  : and  whatever  confidence  he  might  place  in  his 
own  military  talents,  and  in  the  valor  and  discipline  of  his 
troops,  it  was  no  light  thing  to  engage  an  army  twenty 
times  as  numerous  as  his  own.  Before  him  lay  a river 
over  which  it  was  easy  to  advance,  but  over  which,  if 
things  went  ill,  not  one  of  his  little  band  would  ever 
return.  On  this  occasion,  for  the  first  and  for  the  last 
time,  his  dauntless  spirit,  during  a few  hours,  shrank  from 
the  fearful  responsibility  of  making  a decision.  He  called 
a council  of  war.  The  majority  pronounced  against  fighting ; 
and  Clive  declared  his  concurrence  with  the  majority. 
Long  afterwards,  he  said  that  he  had  never  called  but  one 
council  of  war,  and  that,  if  he  had  taken  the  advice  of 
that  council,  the  British  would  never  have  been  masters  of 
Bengal.  But  scarcely  had  the  meeting  broke  up  when  he 
was  himself  again.  He  retired  alone  under  the  shade  of 
some  trees,  and  passed  near  an  hour  there  in  thought.  He 
came  back  determined  to  put  everything  to  the  hazard,  and 
gave  orders  that  all  should  be  in  readiness  for  passing  the 
river  on  the  morrow. 

The  river  was  passed ; and,  at  the  close  of  a toilsome 
day’s  march,  the  army,  long  after  sunset,  took  up  its  quarters 
in  a grove  of  mango  trees  near  Piassey,  within  a mile  of  the 
enemy.  Clive  was  unable  to  sleep  ; he  heard  through  the 
whole  night,  the  sound  of  drums  and  cymbals  from  the  vast 
camp  of  the  Nabob.  It  is  not  strange  that  even  his  stout 
heart  should  now  and  then  have  sunk,  when  he  reflected 
against  what  odds,  and  for  what  a prize,  he  was  in  a few 
hours  to  contend. 

Nor  was  the  rest  of  Surajah  Dowlah  more  peaceful.  His 
mind,  at  once  weak  and  stormy,  was  distracted  by  wild  and 
horrible  apprehensions.  Appalled  by  the  greatness  and 
nearness  of  the  crisis,  distrusting  his  captains,  dreading 
every  one  who  approached  him,  dreading  to  be  left  alone, 
he  sat  gloomily  in  his  tent,  haunted,  a Greek  poet  would 
have  said,  by  the  furies  of  those  whc  had  cursed  him  with 
their  hist  breath  in  the  Black  Hole. 

The  day  broke,  the  day  which  was  to  decide  the  fate  of 


426  MAOAULAY*S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS* 

India.  At  sunrise,  the  army  of  the  Nabob,  pouring  through 
*nany  openings  of  the  camp,  began  to  move  towards  the 
grove  where  the  English  lay.  Forty  thousand  infantry, 
armed  with  firelocks,  pikes,  swords,  bows  and  arrows,  cov- 
ered the  plain.  They  were  accomj^anied  by  fifty  pieces  of 
ordnance  of  the  largest  size,  each  tugged  by  a long  team  of 
white  oxen,  and  each  pushed  on  from  behind  by  an  elephant. 
Some  smaller  guns,  under  the  direction  of  a few  French 
auxiliaries,  were  perhaps  more  formidable.  The  cavalry 
were  fifteen  thousand,  drawn,  not  from  the  effeminate  popu« 
lation  of  Bengal,  but  from  the  bolder  race  which  inhabits 
the  northern  provinces;  and  the  practised  eye  of  Clive 
could  perceive  that  the  men  and  the  horses  were  more 
powerful  than  those  of  the  Carnatic.  The  force  which  he 
had  to  oppose  to  this  great  multitude  consisted  of  only 
three  thousand  men.  But  of  these  nearly  a thousand  were 
English ; and  all  were  led  by  English  officers,  and  trained 
in  the  English  discipline.  Conspicuous  in  the  ranks  of  the 
little  army  were  the  men  of  the  Thirty-Ninth  Regiment,, 
which  still  bears  on  its  colors,  amidst  many  honorable  ad- 
ditions won  under  Wellington  in  Spain  and  Gascony,  the 
name  of  Plassey,  and  the  proud  motto,  Primus  in  Indis. 

The  battle  commenced  with  a cannonade  in  which 
the  artillery  of  the  Nabob  did  scarcely  any  execution, 
while  the  few  field-pieces  of  the  English  produced  great 
effect.  Several  of  the  most  distinguished  officers  in  Sttrajah 
Dowlah’s  service  fell.  Disorder  began  to  spread  through 
his  ranks.  His  own  terror  increased  every  moment.  One 
of  the  conspirators  urged  on  him  the  expediency  of  retreat-  I 
ing.  The  insidious  advice,  agreeing  as  it  did  with  what  his 
own  terrors  suggested,  was  readily  received.  He  ordered  , 
his  army  to  fall  back,  and  this  order  decided  his  fate.  Clive 
snatched  the  moment,  and  ordered  his  troops  to  advance,  j 
The  confused  and  dispirited  multitude  gave  way  before  the 
onset  of  disciplined  valor.  No  mob  attacked  by  regular  \ 
soldiers  was  ever  more  completely  routed.  The  little  band  * 
of  Frenchmen,  wffio  [done  ventured  to  confront  the  English,  \ 
were  swept  down  the  stream  of  fugitives.  In  an  hour  the 
forces  of  Surajah  Dowlah  were  dispersed,  never  to  reas- 
semble. Only  five  hundred  of  the  vanquished  were  slain.  , 
But  their  camp,  their  guns,  their  baggage,  innumerable 
wagons,  innumerable  cattle,  remained  in  the  power  of  the 
conquerors.  With  the  loss  of  twenty-two  soldiers  killed 
and  fifty  wounded,  Clive  had  scattered  an  army  of  near 


LOBD  CLIVE.  427 

sixty  thousand  men,  and  subdued  an  empire  larger  and 
more  populous  than  Great  Britain. 

Meer  Jaffier  liad  given  no  assistance  to  the  English  dur- 
ing the  action.  But  as  soon  as  he  saw  that  the  fate  of  the 
day  was  decided,  he  drew  off  his  division  of  the  army,  and, 
when  the  battle  was  over,  sent  his  congratulations  to  his 
ally.  The  next  morning  he  repaired  to  the  English  quarters, 
not  a little  uneasy  as  to  the  reception  which  awaited  him 
there.  lie  gave  evident  signs  of  alarm  when  a guard  was 
drawn  out  to  receive  him  with  the  honors  due  to  his  rank. 
But  his  apprehensions  were  speedily  removed.  Clive  came 
forward  to  meet  him,  embraced  him,  saluted  him  as  Nabob 
of  the  three  great  provinces  of  Bengal,  Bahar,  and  Orissa, 
listened  graciously  to  his  apologies,  and  advised  him  to 
march  without  delay  to  Moorshedabad. 

Surajah  Dowlah  had  fled  from  the  field  of  battle  with 
all  the  speed  with  which  a fleet  camel  could  carry  him,  and 
arrived  at  Moorshedabad  in  little  more  than  twenty-four 
hours.  There  he  called  his  councillors  round  him.  The 
wisest  advised  him  to  put  himself  into  the  hands  of  the 
English,  from  whom  he  had  nothing  worse  to  fear  than 
deposition  and  confinement.  But  he  attributed  this  sug> 
gestion  to  treachery.  Others  urged  him  to  try  the  chance 
of  war  again.  He  approved  the  advice,  and  issued  orders 
accordingly.  But  he  wanted  spirit  to  adhere  even  during 
one  day  to  a manly  resolution.  He  learned  that  Meer  Jaffier 
had  arrived;  and  his  terrors  became  insupportable.  Dis- 
guised in  a mean  dress,  with  a casket  of  jewels  in  his  hand, 
he  let  himself  down  at  night  from  a window  of  his  palace, 
and,  accompanied  by  only  two  attendants,  embarked  on  the 
river  for  Patna. 

In  a few  days  Clive  arrived  at  Moorshedabad,  escorted 
by  two  hundred  English  soldiers  and  three  hundred  sepoys. 
For  his  residence  had  been  assigned  a palace  which  was  sur- 
rounded by  a garden  so  spacious  that  all  the  troops  who  ac- 
companied him  could  conveniently  encamp  within  it.  The 
ceremony  of  the  installation  of  Meer  Jaffier  was  instantly 
performed.  Clive  led  the  new  Nabob  to  the  seat  of  honor, 
placed  him  on  it,  presented  to  him,  after  the  immemorial 
fashion  of  the  East,  an  offering  of  gold,  and  then,  turning  to 
the  natives  who  filled  the  hall,  congratulated  them  on  the 
good  fortune  which  had  freed  them  from  a tyrant.  He  was 
compelled  on  this  occasion  to  use  the  services  of  an  inter- 
preter ; for  it  is  remarkable  that,  long  as  he  resided  in  India, 


428  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

intimately  acquainted  as  lie  was  with  Indian  politics  and 
with  the  Indian  character,  and  adored  as  he  was  by  his 
Indian  soldiery,  he  never  learned  to  express  himself  with 
facility  in  any  Indian  language.  Ho  is  said  indeed  to  have 
been  sometimes  under  the  necessity  of  employing,  in  his 
intercourse  with  natives  of  India,  the  smattering  of  Portu- 
guese which  he  had  acquired  when  a lad,  in  Brazil. 

The  new  sovereign  was  now  called  upon  to  fulfil  the 
engagements  into  which  he  had  entered  with  his  allies.  A 
conference  was  held  at  the  house  of  Jugget  Seit,  the  great 
banker,  for  the  purpose  of  making  the  necessary  arrange- 
ments. Omichund  came  thither,  fully  believing  himself  to 
stand  high  in  the  favor  of  Clive,  who,  with  dissimulation 
surpassing  even  the  dissimulation  of  Bengal,  had  up  to  that 
day  treated  him  with  undiminislied  kindness.  The  white 
treaty  was  produced  and  read.  Clive  then  turned  to  Mr. 
Scrafton,  one  of  the  servants  of  the  Company,  and  said 
in  English,  “ It  is  now  time  to  undeceive  Omichund.” 
“Omichund,”  said  Mr.  Scrafton  in  Hindostanee,  “the 
red  treaty  is  a trick.  You  are  to  have  nothing.”  Omi- 
chund fell  back  into  the  arms  of  his  attendants.  He  re- 
vived ; but  his  mind  was  irreparably  ruined.  Clive,  who, 
though  little  troubled  by  scruples  of  conscience  in  his  deal- 
ings with  Indian  politicians,  was  not  inhuman,  seems  to 
have  been  touched.  He  saw  Omichund  a few  days  later, 
spoke  to  him  kindly,  advised  him  to  make  a j)*lgrimage  to 
one  of  the  great  temples  of  India,  in  the  hope  that  change 
of  scene  might  restore  his  health,  and  was  even  disposed, 
notwithstanding  all  that  had  passed,  again  to  employ  him 
in  the  public  service.  But  from  the  moment  of  that  sud- 
den shock,  the  unhappy  man  sank  gradually  into  idiocy. 
He  who  had  formerly  been  distinguished  for  the  strength  of 
his  understanding  and  the  simplicity  of  his  habits,  now 
squandered  the  remains  of  his  fortune  on  childish  trinkets, 
and  loved  to  exhibit  himself  dressed  in  rich  garments,  and 
hung  with  precious  stones.  In  this  abject  state  he  lan- 
guished a few  months,  and  then  died. 

We  should  not  think  it  necessary  to  offer  any  remarks 
for  the  purpose  of  directing  the  judgment  of  our  readers, 
with  respect  to  this  transaction,  had  not  Sir  John  Malcolm 
undertaken  to  defend  it  in  all  its  parts.  He  regrets,  indeed, 
that  it  was  necessary  to  employ  means  so  liable  to  abuse  as 
forgery;  but  he  will  not  admit  that  any  blame  attaches  to 
those  who  deceived  the  deceiver.  He  thinks  that  the  Eng* 


LOUD  CLIVE. 


429 


lish  were  not  bound  to  keep  faith  with  one  who  kept  no 
faith  with  them,  and  that,  if  they  had  fulfilled  their  engage- 
ments with  the  wily  Bengalee,  so  signal  an  example  of  suc- 
cessful treason  would  have  produced  a crowd  of  imitators. 
Now,  we  will  not  discuss  this  point  on  any  rigid  principles 
of  morality.  Indeed,  it  is  quite  unnecessary  to  do  so : for, 
looking  at  the  question  as  a question  of  expediency  in  the 
lowest  sense  of  the  word,  and  using  no  arguments  but  such 
as  Machiavelli  might  have  employed  in  his  conferences  with 
Borgia,  we  are  convinced  that  Clive  was  altogether  in  the 
wrong,  and  that  he  committed,  not  merely  a crime,  but  a 
blunder.  That  honesty  is  the  best  policy  is  a maxim  which 
we  firmly  believe  to  be  generally  correct,  even  with  respect 
to  the  temporal  interests  of  individuals  ; but  with  respect  to 
societies,  the  rule  is  subject  to  still  fewer  exceptions,  and 
that  for  this  reason,  that  the  life  of  societies  is  longer  than  the 
life  of  individuals.  It  is  possible  to  mention  men  who  have 
owed  great  worldly  prosperity  to  breaches  of  private  faith  ; 
but  we  doubt  whether  it  be  possible  to  mention  a state  which 
has  on  the  whole  been  a gainer  by  a breach  of  public  faith. 
The  entire  history  of  British  India  is  an  illustration  of  the 
great  truth,  that  it  is  not  prudent  to  oppose  perfidy  to  per- 
fidy, and  that  the  most  efficient  weapon  with  which  men  can 
encounter  falsehood  is  truth.  During  a long  course  of  years, 
the  English  rulers  in  India,  surrounded  by  allies  and  ene- 
mies whom  no  engagement  could  bind,  have  generally  acted 
with  sincerity  and  uprightness  ; and  the  event  has  proved  that 
sincerity  and  uprightness  are  wisdom.  English  valor  and 
English  intelligence  have  done  less  to  extend  and  to  pre- 
serve our  Oriental  empire  than  English  veracity.  All  that 
we  could  have  gained  by  imitating  the  doublings,  the  eva- 
sions, the  fictions,  the  perjuries  which  have  been  employed 
against  us  is  as  nothing,  when  compared  with  what  we  have 
gained  by  being  the  one  power  in  India  on  whose  word  re- 
liance can  be  placed.  No  oath  which  superstition  can  de- 
vise, no  nostage  however  precious,  inspires  a hundredth  part 
of  the  confidence  which  is  produced  by  the  “ yea,  yea,”  and 
“ nay,  nay,”  of  a British  envoy.  No  fastness,  however 
strong  by  art  or  nature,  gives  to  its  inmates  a security  like 
that  enjoyed  by  the  chief  who,  passing  through  the  territo- 
ries of  powerful  and  deadly  enemies,  is  armed  with  the 
British  guarantee.  The  mightiest  princes  of  the  East  can 
scarcely,  by  the  offer  of  enormous  usury,  draw  forth  any 
portion  of  the  wealth  which  is  concealed  under  the  hearths 


430 


MACAULAY*S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


of  their  subjects.  The  British  Government  offers  little 
more  than  four  per  cent. ; and  avarice  hastens  to  bring  forth 
tens  of  millions  of  rupees  from  its  most  secret  repositories. 

A hostile  monarch  may  promise  mountains  of  gold  to  our 
sepoys,  on  condition  that  they  will  desert  the  standard  of 
the  Company.  The  Company  promises  only  a moderate 
pension  after  a long  service.  But  every  sepoy  knows  that 
the  promise  of  the  Company  will  be  kept : he  knows  that 
if  he  lives  a hundred  years  his  rice  and  salt  are  as  secure  as 
the  salary  of  the  Governor-General : and  he  knows  that 
there  is  not  another  state  in  India  which  would  not,  in.spite 
of  the  most  solemn  vows,  leave  him  to  die  of  hunger  in  a 
ditch  as  soon  as  he  had  ceased  to  be  useful.  The  greatest 
ad  vantage  wdiich  a government  can  possess  is  to  be  the  one 
trustworthy  government  in  the  midst  of  governments  which 
nobody  can  trust.  This  advantage  we  enjoy  in  Asia.  Had 
we  acted  during  the  last  two  generations  on  the  principles 
which  Sir  John  Malcolm  appears  to  have  considered  as  sound, 
had  we  as  often  as  we  had  to  deal  with  people  like  Omi- 
chund,  retaliated  by  lying  and  forging,  and  breaking  faith, 
after  their  fashion,  it  is  our  firm  belief  that  no  courage  or 
capacity  could  have  upheld  our  empire. 

Sir  John  Malcolm  admits  that  Clive’s  breach  of  faith 
could  be  justified  only  by  the  strongest  necessity.  As  we 
think  that  breach  of  faith  not  only  unnecessary,  but  most 
inexpedient,  wre  need  hardly  say  that  we  altogether  con- 
demn it. 

Omichund  was  not  the  only  victim  of  the  revolution. 
Surajah  Dowlah  was  taken  a few  days  after  his  flight,  and 
was  brought  before  Meer  Jaflier.  There  he  flung  himsell 
on  the  ground  in  convulsions  of  fear,  and  with  tears  and 
loud  cries  implored  the  mercy  which  he  had  never  shown. 
Meer  Jaffier  hesitated ; but  his  son  Meeran,  a youth  of 
seventeen,  who  in  feebleness  of  brain  and  savageness  of  na- 
ture greatly  resembled  the  wretched  captive,  was  implaca- 
ble. Surajah  Dowlah  was  led  into  a secret  chamber,  to 
which  in  a short  time  the  ministers  of  death  were  sent.  In 
this  act  the  English  bore  no  part ; and  Meer  Jaffier  under- 
stood so  much  of  their  feelings,  that  he  thought  it  necessary  4 
to  apologize  to  them  for  having  avenged  them  on  their  most 
malignant  enemy. 

The  shower  of  wealth  now  fell  copiously  on  the  Com- 
pany and  its  servants.  A sum  of  eight  hundred  thousand 
pounds  sterling,  in  coined  silver,  was  sent  down  the  river 


LOfeb  cLtvffi. 


431 


from  Moorshedabad  to  Fort  William.  The  fleet  which  con* 
veyed  this  treasure  consisted  of  more  than  a hundred  boats, 
and  performed  its  triumphal  voyage  with  flags  flying  and 
music  playing.  Calcutta,  which  a few  months  before  had 
been  desolate,  was  now  more  prosperous  than  ever.  Trade 
revived  ; and  the  signs  of  affluence  appeared  in  every  Eng- 
lish house.  As  to  Clive,  there  wras  no  limit  to  his  acquisi- 
tions but  his  own  moderation.  The  treasury  of  Bengal  was 
thrown  open  to  him.  There  were  piled  up,  after  the  usage 
of  Indian  princes,  immense  masses  of  coin,  among  wh’eh 
might  not  seldom  be  detected  the  florins  and  byzants  with 
which,  before  any  European  ship  had  turned  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope,  the  Venetians  purchased  the  stuffs  and  spices 
of  the  East.  Clive  walked  between  heaps  of  gold  and  sil- 
ver, crowned  with  rubies  and  diamonds,  and  was  at  liberty 
to  help  himself.  lie  accepted  between  two  and  three  hun- 
dred thousand  pounds. 

The  pecuniary  transactions  between  Meer  Jaffier  and 
Clive  were  sixteen  years  later  condemned  by  the  public 
voice,  and  severely  criticised  in  Parliament.  They  are  ve- 
hemently defended  by  Sir  John  Malcolm.  The  accusers  of 
the  victorious  general  represented  his  gains  as  the  wages  of 
corruption,  or  as  plunder  extorted  at  the  point  of  the  sword 
from  a helpless  ally.  The  biographer,  on  the  other  hand, 
considers  these  great  acquisitions  as  free  gifts,  honorable 
alike  to  the  donor  and  to  the  receiver,  and  compares  them 
to  the  rewards  bestowed  by  foreign  powers  on  Marlborough, 
on  Nelson,  and  on  Wellington.  It  had  always,  he  says, 
been  customary  in  the  East  to  give  and  receive  presents  ; 
and  there  was,  as  yet,  no  act  of  Parliament  positively  pro- 
hibiting English  functionaries  in  India  from  profiting  by 
this  Asiatic  usage.  This  reasoning,  we  own,  does  not  quite 
satisfy  us.  We  do  not  suspect  Clive  of  selling  the  interests 
of  his  employers  or  his  country ; but  we  cannot  acquit  him 
of  having  done  what,  if  not  in  itself  evil,  was  yet  of  evil  ex- 
ample. Nothing  is  more  clear  than  that  a general  ought  to 
be  the  servant  of  his  own  government,  and  of  no  other.  It 
follows  that  whatever  rewards  he  receives  for  his  services 
ought  to  be  given  either  by  his  own  government,  or  with 
the  full  knowledge  and  approbation  of  his  own  government. 
This  rule  ought  to  be  strictly  maintained  even  with  respect 
to  the  merest  bauble,  with  respect  to  a cross,  a medal,  or  a 
yard  of  colored  riband.  But  how  can  any  government  be 
well  served,  if  those  who  command  its  forces  are  at  liberty, 


432  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

without  its  permission,  without  its  privity,  to  accept  princely 
fortunes  from  its  allies  ? It  is  idle  to  say  that  there  was 
then  no  Act  of  Parliament  prohibiting  the  practice  of  taking 
presents  from  Asiatic  sovereigns.  It  is  not  on  the  Act 
which  was  passed  at  a later  period  for  the  purpose  of  pre- 
venting any  such  taking  of  presents,  but  on  grounds  which 
were  valid  before  the  Act  was  passed,  on  grounds  of  com- 
mon law  and  common  sense,  that  we  arraign  the  conduct  of 
Clive.  There  is  no  Act  that  we  know  of,  prohibiting  the 
Secretary  of  State  for  Foreign  Affairs  from  being  in  the 
pay  of  continental  powers,  but  it  is  not  the  less  true  that  a 
Secretary  who  should  receive  a secret  pension  from  France 
would  grossly  violate  his  duty,  and  would  deserve  severe 
punishment.  Sir  John  Malcolm  compares  the  conduct  of 
Clive  with  that  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington.  Suppose, — and 
we  beg  pardon  for  putting  such  a supposition  even  for  the 
sake  of  argument, — that  the  Duke  of  Wellington  had,  after 
the  campaign  of  1815,  and  while  he  commanded  the  army  of 
occupation  in  France,  privately  accepted  two  hundred  thou- 
sand pounds  from  Lewis  the  Eighteenth,  as  a mark  of  grati- 
tude for  the  great  services  which  his  Grace  had  rendered  to  the 
House  of  Bourbon  ; what  would  be  thought  of  such  a trans- 
action? Yet  the  statute-book  no  more  forbids  the  taking  of 
presents  in  Europe  now  than  it  forbade  the  taking  of  pres- 
ents in  Asia  then. 

At  the  same  time,  it  must  be  admitted  that,  in  Clive’s 
case,  there  were  many  extenuating  circumstances.  He  con- 
sidered himself  as  the  general,  not  of  the  Crown,  but  of  the 
Company.  The  Company  had,  by  implication  at  least,  au- 
thorized its  agents  to  enrich  themselves  by  means  of  the 
liberality  of  the  native  princes,  and  by  other  means  still 
more  objectionable.  It  was  hardly  to  be  expected  that  the 
servant  should  entertain  stricter  notions  of  his  duty  than 
were  entertained  by  his  masters.  Though  Clive  did  not 
distinctly  acquaint  his  employers  with  what  had  taken  placo 
and  request  their  sanction,  he  did  not,  on  the  other  hand, 
by  studied  concealment,  show  that  he  was  conscious  of  hav- 
ing done  wrong.  On  the  contrary,  he  avowed  with  the 
greatest  openness  that  the  Nabob’s  bounty  had  raised  him 
to  affluence.  Lastly,  though  we  think  that  he  ought  not  in 
such  a way  to  have  taken  anything,  we  must  admit  that  he 
deserves  praise  for  having  taken  so  little.  lie  accepted 
twenty  lacs  of  rupees.  It  would  have  cost  him  only  a word 
to  make  the  twenty  forty.  It  was  a very  easy  exercise  of 


LORD  OLIVE.  433 

virtue  to  declaim  in  England  against  Clivers  rapacity;  but 
not  one  in  a hundred  of  his  accusers  would  have  shown  so 
much  self-command  in  the  treasury  of  Moorshedabad. 

Meer  Jaffier  could  be  upheld  on  the  throne  only  by  the 
hand  which  had  placed  him  upon  it.  He  was  not,  indeed,  a 
mere  boy;  nor  had  he  been  so  fortunate  as  to  be  born  in 
the  purple.  He  was  not  therefore  quite  so  imbecile  or  quite 
so  depraved  as  his  predecessor  had  been.  But  he  had  none 
of  the  talents  or  virtues  which  his  post  had  required;  and 
his  son  and  heir,  Meeran,  was  another  Surajah  Dowlah. 
The  recent  revolution  had  unsettled  the  minds  of  men. 
Many  chiefs  were  in  open  insurrection  against  the  new  Na- 
bob. The  viceroy  of  the  rich  and  powerful  province  of 
Oude,  who,  like  the  other  viceroys  of  the  Mogul,  was  now 
in  truth  an  independent  sovereign,  menaced  Bengal  with 
invasion.  Nothing  but  the  talents  and  authority  of  Clive 
could  supportthe  tottering  government.  While  things  were 
in  this  state  a ship  arrived  with  despatches  which  had  been 
written  at  the  India  House  before  the  news  of  the  battle  of 
Plassey  had  reached  London.  The  Directors  had  deter- 
mined to  place  the  English  settlements  in  Bengal  under  a 
government  constituted  in  the  most  cumbrous  and  absurd 
manner;  and,  to  make  the  matter  worse,  no  place  in  the 
arrangement  was  assigned  to  Clive.  The  persons  who  were 
selected  to  form  this  new  government,  greatly  to  their 
honor,  took  on  themselves  the  responsibility  of  disobeying 
these  preposterous  orders,  and  invited  Clive  to  exercise  the 
supreme  authority.  He  consented;  and.  it  soon  appeared 
that  the  servants  of  the  Company  had  only  anticipated  the 
wishes  of  their  employers.  The  Directors,  on  receiving 
news  of  Clive’s  brilliant  success,  instantly  appointed  him 
governor  of  their  possessions  in  Bengal,  with  the  highest 
marks  of  gratitude  and  esteem.  His  power  was  now  bound- 
less, and  far  surpassed  even  that  which  Dupleix  had  attained 
in  the  south  of  India.  Meer  Jaffier  regarded  him  with 
slavish  awe.  On  one  occasion,  the  Nabob  spoke  with  sever- 
ity to  a native  chief  of  high  rank,  whose  followers  had  been 
engaged  in  a brawl  with  some  of  the  Company’s  sepoys. 
y Are  you  yet  to  learn,”  he  said,  “ who  that  Colonel  Clive 
is,  and  in  what  station  God  has  placed  him?”  The  chief, 
who,  as  a famous  jester  and  an  old  friend  of  Meer  Jaffier, 
could  venture  to  take  liberties,  answered,  “ I affront  the 
Colonel ! I,  who  never  get  up  in  the  morning  without  mak- 
ing .three  low  bows  to  his  jackass!”  This  was  hardlv  an  ex* 


484 


ilACAUI  AY*S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS, 


aggeration.  Europeans  and  natives  were  alike  at  Clivers 
feet.  The  English  regarded  him  as  the  only  man  who  could 
force  Meer  Jaffier  to  keep  his  engagements  with  them. 
Meer  Jaffier  regarded  him  as  the  only  man  who  could  pro- 
tect the  new  dynasty  against  turbulent  subjects  and  en- 
croaching neighbors. 

It  is  but  justice  to  say  that  Clive  used  his  power  ably 
and  vigorously  for  the  advantage  of  his  country.  He  sent 
forth  an  expedition  against  the  tract  lying  to  the  north  of 
the  Carnatic.  In  this  tract  the  French  still  had  the  ns* 
cendency ; and  it  was  important  to  dislodge  them.  The 
conduc;  of  the  enterprise  was  intrusted  to  an  officer  of  the 
name  of  Forde,  who  was  then  little  known,  but  in  whom 
the  keen  eye  of  the  governor  had  detected  military  talents 
of  a high  order.  The  success  of  the  expedition  was  rapid 
and  splendid. 

While  a considerable  part  of  the  army  of  Bengal  was 
thus  engaged  at  a distance,  a new  and  formidable  danger 
menaced  the  western  frontier.  The  Great  Mogul  was  a 
prisoner  at  Delhi  in  the  hands  of  a subject.  His  eldest  son, 
named  Shall  Alum,  destined  to  be,  during  many  years,  the 
sport  of  adverse  fortune,  and  to  be  a tool  in  the  hands, 
first  of  the  Mahrattas,  and  then  of  the  English,  had  fled 
from  the  palace  of  his  father.  His  birth  was  still  revered 
in  India.  Some  powerful  princes,  the  Nabob  of  Oude  in 
particular,  were  inclined  to  favor  him.  Shah  Alum  found, 
it  easy  to  draw  to  his  standard  great  numbers  of  the  mil* 
itary  adventurers  with  whom  every  part  of  the  country 
swarmed.  An  army  of  forty  thousand  men,  of  various 
races  and  religions, dVIahrattas,  Rohillas,  Jauts,  and  Afghans, 
was  speedily  assembled  round  him ; and  he  formed  the  do*, 
sign  of  overthrowing  the  upstart  whom  the  English  had  ele- 
vated to  a throne,  and  of  establishing  his  own  authority 
throughout  Bengal,  Orissa,  and  Bahar. 

Meer  Jaffier’ s terror  was  extreme;  and  the  only  expe> 
dient  which  occurred  to  him  was  to  purchase,  by  the  pay- 
ment of  a large  sum  of  money,  an  accommodation  with 
Shah  Alum.  This  expedient  had  been  repeatedly  employed 
by  those  who,  before  him,  had  ruled  the  rich  and  unwarlike 
provinces  near  the  mouth  of  the  Ganges.  But  Clive  treated 
the  suggestion  with  a scorn  worthy  of  his  strong  sense  ‘and 
dauntless  courage.  “If  you  do  this,”  he  wrote,  “ you  will 
have  the  Nabob  of  Qude*  the  Mahrattas,  and  many  more, 
come  from  all  parts  of  the  confines  of  your  country,  who 


S#. 


LORD  CLIVE* 


will  bully  you  out  of  money  till  you  have  none  left  i a your 
treasury.  I beg  your  Excellency  will  rely  on  the  fidelity  of 
the  English,  and  of  those  troops  which  are  attached  to  you.” 
He  wrote  in  a similar  strain  to  the  governor  of  Patna,  a 
brave  native  soldier  whom  he  highly  esteemed.  “ Come  to 
no  terms ; defend  your  city  to  the  last.  Rest  assured  that 
the  English  are  stanch  and  firm  friends,  and  that  they  never 
desert  a cause  in  which  they  have  once  taken  a part.” 

He  kept  his  word.  Shah  Alum  had  invested  Patna,  and 
was  on  the  point  of  proceeding  to  storm,  when  he  learned 
that  the  Colonel  was  advancing  by  forced  marches.  The 
whole  army  which  was  approaching  consisted  only  of  four 
hundred  and  fifty  Europeans  and  two  thousand  five  hundred 
sepoys.  But  Clive  and  his  Englishmen  were  now  objects  of 
dread  over  all  the  East.  As  soon  as  his  advanced  guard  ap- 
peared, the  besiegers  fled  before  him.  A few  French  ad- 
venturers who  were  about  the  person  of  the  prince  advised 
him  to  try  the  chance  of  battle;  but  in  vain.  In  a few 
days  this  great  army,  which  had  been  regarded  with  so 
much  uneasiness  by  the  court  of  Moorshedabad,  melted 
away  before  the  mere  terror  of  the  British  name. 

The  conqueror  returned  in  triumph  to  Fort  William. 
The  joy  of  Meer  Jafiicr  was  as  unbounded  as  his  fears  had 
been,  and  led  him  to  bestow  on  his  preserver  a princely 
token  of  gratitude.  The  quit-rent  which  the  East  India 
Company  were  bound  to  pay  to  the  Nabob  for  the  exten- 
sive lands  held  by  them  to  the -south  of  Calcutta  amounted 
to  near  thirty  thousand  pounds  sterling  a year.  The  whole 
of  this  splendid  estate,  sufficient  to  support  with  dignity  the 
highest  rank  of  the  British  peerage,  was  now  conferred  on 
Clive  for  life. 

This  present  we  think  Clive  was  justified  in  accepting. 
It  was  a present  which,  from  its  very  nature,  could  be  no  se- 
cret. In  fact,  the  Company  itself  was  his  tenant,  and,  by 
its  acquiescence,  signified  its  approbation  of  Meer  J affier’s 
grant. 

But  the  gratitude  of  Meer  Jaffier  did  not  last  long,  Ho 
had  for  some  time  felt  that  the  powerful  ally  who  had  set 
him  up  might  pull  him  down,  and  had  been  looking  round 
for  support  against  the  formidable  strength  by  which  he 
had  himself  been  hitherto  supported.  He  knew  that  it 
would  be  impossible  to  find  among  the  natives  of  India  any 
force  which  would  look  the  Colonel’s  little  army  in  the  face. 
The  French  power  in  Bengal  was  extinct.  But  the  fame 


436  MACAULAYS  MISCELLANEOUS  WJLUTINGS. 

of  the  Dutch  had  anciently  been  great  in  the  Eastern  seas , 
and  it  was  not  yet  distinctly  known  in  Asia  how  much  the 
power  of  Holland  had  declined  in  Europe.  Secret  com 
munications  passed  between  the  court  of  Moorsliedabad  and 
the  Dutch  factory  at  Ch insurah;  and  urgent  letters  were 
sent  from  Chinsurah,  exhorting  the  government  of  Batavia 
to  fit  out  an  expedition  which  might  balance  the  power  of 
the  English  in  Bengal.  The  authorities  of  Batavia,  eager 
to  extend  the  influence  of  their  country,  and  still  more 
eager  to  obtain  for  themselves  a share  of  the  wealth  which 
had  recently  raised  so  many  English  adventurers  to  opu- 
lence, equipped  a powerful  armament.  Seven  large  ships 
from  Java  arrived  unexpectedly  in  the  Hoogley.  The  mili- 
tary force  on  board  amounted  to  fifteen  hundred  men,  of 
whom  about  one  half  were  Europeans.  The  enterprise  was 
well  timed.  Clive  had  sent  such  large  detachments  to  oppose 
the  French  in  the  Carnatic  that  his  army  was  now  inferior 
in  number  to  that  of  the  Dutch.  lie  knew  that  Meer  Jaffier 
secretly  favored  the  invaders.  He  knew  that  he  took  on 
himself  a serious  responsibility  if  he  attacked  the  forces  of 
a friendly  power;  that  the  English  ministers  could  not 
wish  to  see  a war  with  Holland  added  to  that  in  which 
they  were  already  engaged  -with  France ; that  they  might 
disavow  his  acts;  that  they  might  punish  him.  He  had  re- 
cently remitted  a great  part  of  his  fortune  to  Europe,  through 
the  Dutch  East  India  Company ; and  he  had  therefore  a 
strong  interest  in  avoiding  any  quarrel.  But  he  was  satis- 
fied that,  if  he  suffered  the  Batavian  armament  to  pass  up 
the  river  and  to  join  the  garrison  of  Chinsurah,  Meer  Jaffier 
would  throw  himself  into  the  arms  of  these  new  allies,  and 
that  the  English  ascendency  in  Bengal  would  be  exposed  to 
most  serious  danger.  He  took  his  resolution  with  character- 
istic boldness,  and  was  most  ably  seconded  by  his  officers, 
particularly  by  Colonel  Forde,  to  whom  the  most  important* 
part  of  the  operations  was  intrusted.  The  Dutch  attempted 
to  force  a passage.  The  English  encountered  them  both 
by  land  and  water.  On  both  elements  the  enemy  had  a great 
superiority  of  force.  On  both  they  were  signally  defeated. 
Their  ships  were  taken.  Their  troops  were  put  to  a total 
rout.  Almost  all  the  European  soldiers,  who  constituted 
the  main  strength  of  the  invading  army,  were  killed  or 
taken.  The  conquerors  sat  down  before  Chinsurah ; and 
the  chiefs  of  that  settlement,  now  thoroughly  humbled,  con- 
sented to  the  terms  which  Clive  dictated.  They  engaged 


L0KD  CLIVE. 


437 


to  build  no  fortifications,  and  to  raise  no  troops  beyond  a 
email  force  necessary  for  the  police  of  iheir  tactories ; and 
it  was  distinctly  provided  that  any  violation  of  these 
covenants  should  be  punished  with  instant  expulsion  from 
Bengal. 

Three  months  after  this  great  victory,  Clive  sailed  for 
England.  At  home,  honors  and  rewards  awaited  him,  not 
indeed  equal  to  his  claims  or  to  his  ambition,  but  still  such 
as,  when  his  age,  his  rank  in  the  army,  and  his  original 
place  in  society  are  considered,  must  be  pronounced  rare 
and  splendid.  He  was  raised  to  the  Irish  peerage,  and  en- 
couraged to  expect  an  English  title.  George  the  Third, 
who  had  just  ascended  the  throne,  received  him  with  great 
distinction.  The  ministers  paid  him  marked  attention ; and 
Pitt,  whose  influence  in  the  House  of  Commons  and  in  the 
country  was  unbounded,  was  eager  to  mark  his  regard  for 
one  whose  exploits  had  contributed  so  much  to  the  lustre  of 
that  memorable  period.  The  great  orator  had  already  in 
Parliament  described  Clive  as  a heaven-born  general,  as  a 
man  who,  bred  to  the  labor  of  the  desk,  had  displayed  a mil- 
itary genius  which  might  excite  the  admiration  of  the  King 
of  Prussia.  There  were  then  no  reporters-  in  the  gallery ; 
but  these  words,  emphatically  spoken  by  the  first  statesmen 
of  the  age,  had  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth,  had  been 
transmitted  to  Clive  in  Bengal,  and  had  greatly  delighted 
and  flattered  him.  Indeed,  since  the  death  of  Wolfe,  Clive 
was  the  only  English  general  of  whom  his  countrymen 
had  much  reason  to  be  proud.  The  Duke  of  Cumberland 
had  been  generally  unfortunate  ; and  his  single  victory, 
having  been  gained  over  his  countrymen  and  used  with 
merciless  severity,  had  been  more  fatal  to  his  popularity 
than  his  many  defeats.  Conway,  versed  in  the  learning  of 
his  profession,  and  personally  courageous,  wanted  vigor 
and  capacity.  Granby,  honest,  generous,  and  as  brave  as 
a lion,  had  neither  science  nor  genius.  Sackville,  inferior 
in  knowledge  and  abilities  to  none  of  his  contemporaries, 
had  incurred,  unjustly  as  we  believe,  the  imputation  most 
fatal  to  the  character  of  a soldier.  It  was  under  the  com- 
mand of  a foreign  general  that  the  British  had  triumphed 
at  Minden  and  Warburg.  The  people  therefore,  as  was 
natural,  greeted  with  pride  and  delight  a captain  of  their 
own,  whose  native  courage  and  self-taught  skill  had  placed 
him  on  a level  with  the  great  tacticians  of  Germany. 

The  wealth  of  Clive  was  such  as  enabled  him  to  vie 


438 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  whitings. 


with  the  first  grandees  of  England.  There  remains  proof 
that  he  had  remitted  more  than  a hundred  and  eighty 
thousand  pounds  through  the  Dutch  East  India  Company, 
and  more  than  forty  thousand  pounds  through  the  English 
Company.  The  amount  which  he  had  sent  home  through 
private  houses  was  also  considerable.  He  had  invested 
great  sums  in  jewels,  then  a very  common  mode  of  remit- 
tance from  India.  Ilis  purchases  of  diamonds  at  Madras 
alone,  amounted  to  twenty-five  thousand  pounds.  Besides 
a great  mass  of  ready  money,  he  had  his  Indian  estate, 
valued  by  himself  at  twenty-seven  thousand  a year.  His 
whole  annual  income,  in  the  opinion  of  Sir  John  Malcolm, 
who  is  desirous  to  state  it  as  low  as  possible,  exceeded  forty 
thousand  pounds;  and  incomes  of  forty  thousand  pounds 
at  the  time  of  the  accession  of  George  the  Third  were  at 
least  as  rare  as  incomes  of  a hundred  thousand  pounds  now. 
We  may  safely  affirm  that  no  Englishman  who  started  with 
nothing,  has  ever,  in  any  line  of  life,  created  such  a fortune 
at  the  early  age  of  thirty-four. 

It  would  be  unjust  not  to  add  that  Clive  made  a credit- 
able use  of  his  riches.  As  soon  as  the  battle  of  Plassey  had 
laid  the  foundation  of  his  fortune,  he  .sent  ten  thousand 
pounds  to  his  sisters,  bestowed  as  much  more  on  other  poor 
friends  and  relations,  ordered  his  agent  to  pay  eight  hundred 
a year  to  his  parents,  and  to  insist  they  that  should  keep 
a carriage,  and  settled  five  hundred  a year  on  his  old  com- 
mander Lawrence,  whose  means  were  very  slender.  The 
whole  sum  which  Clive  exj^ended  in  this  manner  may  be 
calculated  at  fifty  thousand  pounds. 

He  now  set  himself  to  cultivate  Parliamentary  interest. 
Ilis  purchases  of  land  seem  to  have  been  made  in  great 
measure  with  that  view,  and  after  the  general  election  of 
1761,  he  found  himself  in  the  House  of  Commons,  at  the 
head  of  a body  of  dependents  whose  support  must  have 
been  important  to  any  administration.  In  English  politics, 
however,  he  did  not  take  a prominent  part.  His  first  at- 
tachments, as  we  have  seen,  were  to  Mr.  Fox ; at  a later 
period  he  was  attracted  by  the  genius  and  success  of  Mr. 
Pitt ; but  finally  he  connected  himself  in  the  closest  manner 
with  George  Grenville.  Early  in  the  session  of  1764,  when 
the  illegal  and  impolitic  persecution  of  that  worthless  dema- 
gogue Wilkes  had  strongly  excited  the  public  mind,  the 
town  was  amused  by  an  anecdote,  which  we  have  seen 
in  some  unpublished  memoirs  of  Horace  Walpole.  Old 


LOj&b  dtiVIc. 


m 


Mr.  Richard  Clive,  who  since  his  son’s  elevation  had  been 
introduced  into  society  for  which  his  former  habits  had  not 
well  fitted  him,  presented  himself  at  the  levee.  The  King 
asked  him  where  Lord  Clive  was.  “ Pie  will  be  in  town 
very  soon,”  said  the  old  gentleman,  loud  enough  to  be  heard 
by  the  whole  circle,  “and  then  your  Majesty  wTill  have 
another  vote.” 

But  in  truth  all  Clive’s  views  were  directed  towards  the 
country  in  which  he  had  so  eminently  distinguished  himself 
as  a soldier  and  a statesman  ; and  it  was  by  considerations 
relating  to  India  that  his  conduct  as  a public  man  in  Engl- 
and was  regulated.  The  power  of  the  Company,  though 
an  anomaly,  is  in  our  time,  we  are  firmly  persuaded,  a bene- 
ficial anomaly.  In  the  time  of  Clive,  it  was  not  merely  an 
anomaly,  but  a nuisance.  There  was  no  Board  of  Control. 
The  Directory  were  for  the  most  part  mere  traders,  ignorant 
of  general  politics,  ignorant  of  the  peculiarities  of  the  empire 
which  had  strangely  become  subject  to  them.  The  Court 
of  Proprietors,  wherever  it  chose  to  interfere,  was  able  to 
have  its  way.  That  court  was  more  numerous,  as  well  as 
more  powerful,  than  at  present ; for  then  every  share  of  five 
hundred  pounds  conferred  a vote.  The  meetings  were 
large,  stormy,  even  riotous,  the  debates  indecently  virulent. 
All  the  turbulence  of  a Westminster  election,  all  the  trickery 
and  corruption  of  a Grampound  election,  disgraced  the  pro- 
ceedings of  this  assembly  on  questions  of  the  most  solemn  im- 
portance. Fictitious  votes  were  manufactured  on  a gigantic 
scale.  Clive  himself  laid  out  a hundred  thousand  pounds 
in  the  purchase  of  stock,  which  he  then  divided  among 
nominal  proprietors  on  whom  he  could  depend,  and  whom  he 
brought  down  in  his  train  to  every  discussion  and  every  bal- 
lot. Others  did  the  same,  though  not  to  quite  so  enormous 
an  extent. 

The  interest  taken  by  the  public  of  England  in  Indian 
questions  was  then  far  greater  than  at  present,  and  the 
reason  is  obvious.  At  present  a writer  enters  the  service 
young ; he  climbs  slowly ; he  is  fortunate  if,  at  forty-five, 
he  can  return  to  his  country  with  an  annuity  of  a thousand 
a year,  and  with  savings  amounting  to  thirty  thousand 
pounds.  A great  quantity  of  wealth  is  made  by  English 
functionaries  in  India ; but  no  single  functionary  makes 
a very  large  fortune,  and  what  is  made  is  slowly,  hardly, 
and  honestly  earned.  Only  four  or  five  high  political  offices 
are  reserved  for  public  men  from  England.  The  resi- 


440  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  whitings. 

dencesv  the  secretaryships,  the  seats  m the  boards  of  revenue 
and  in  the  Sudder  courts  are  all  filled  by  men  who  have 
given  the  best  years  of  life  to  the  service  of  the  Company ; 
nor  can  any  talents  however  splendid  or  any  connections 
however  powerful  obtain  those  lucrative  posts  for  any  per- 
son who  has  not  entered  by  the  regular  door,  and  mounted 
by  the  regular  gradations.  Seventy  years  ago,  less  money 
was  brought  home  from  the  East  than  in  our  time.  But  it 
was  divided  among  a very  much  smaller  number  of  persons, 
and  immense  sums  were  often  accumulated  in  a few  months. 
Any  Englishman,  whatever  his  age  might  be,  might  hope 
to  be  one  of  the  lucky  emigrants.  If  he  made  a good  speech 
in  Leadenhall  Street,  or  published  a clever  pamphlet  in  de- 
fence of  the  chairman,  he  might  be  sent  out  in  the  Company’s 
service,  and  might  return  in  three  or  four  years  as  rich  as 
Pigot  or  as  Clive.  Thus  the  India  House  was  a lottery- 
office,  which  invited  everybody  to  take  a chance,  and  held 
out  ducal  fortunes  as  the  prizes  destined  for  the  lucky  few. 
As  soon  as  it  was  known  that  there  was  a part  of  the  world 
where  a lieutenant-colonel  had  one  morning  received  as  a 
present  an  estate  as  large  as  that  of  the  Earl  of  Bath  or  the 
Marquess  of  Rockingham,  and  where  it  seemed  that  such  a 
trifle  as  ten  or  twenty  thousand  pounds  was  to  be  had  by 
any  British  functionary  for  the  asking,  society  began  to  ex- 
hibit all  the  symptoms  of  the  South  Sea  year,  a feverish  ex- 
citement, an  ungovernable  impatience  to  be  rich,  a contempt 
for  slow,  sure,  and  moderate  gains. 

At  the  head  of  the  preponderating  party  in  the  India 
House,  had  long  stood  a powerful,  able,  and  ambitious  di- 
rector of  the  name  of  Sulivan.  He  had  conceived  a strong 
jealousy  of  Clive,  and  remembered  with  bitterness  the 
audacity  with  which  the  late  governor  of  Bengal  had  re- 
peatedly set  at  nought  the  authority  of  the  distant  Direc- 
tors of  the  Company.  An  apparent  reconciliation  took 
place  after  Clive’s  arrival;  but  enmity  remained  deeply 
rooted  in  the  hearts  of  both.  The  whole  body  of  Directors 
was  then  chosen  annually.  At  the  election  of  1763,  Clive 
attempted  to  break  down  the  power  of  the  dominant  faction. 
The  contest  was  carried  on  with  a violence  which  he  de- 
scribes as  tremendous.  Sulivan  was  victorious,  and  hastened 
to  take  his  revenge.  The  grant  of  rent  which  Clive  had  re- 
ceived from  Mcer  Jaffier  was,  in  the  opinion  of  the  best 
English  lawyers,  valid.  It  had  been  made  by  exactly  the 
same  authority  from  which  the  Company  had  received  their 


LORD  CLIVE. 


441 


chief  possessions  in  Bengal,  and  the  Company  had  long 
acquiesced  in  it.  The  Directors,  however,  most  unjustly  de- 
termined to  confiscate  it,  and  Clive  was  forced  to  file  a bill 
in  Chancery  against  them. 

But  a great  and  sudden  turn  in  affairs  was  at  hand. 
Every  ship  from  Bengal  had  for  some  time  brought  alarm- 
ing tidings.  The  internal  misgovernment  of  the  province 
had  reached  such  a point  that  it  could  go  no  further.  What, 
indeed,  was  to  be  expected  from  a body  of  public  servants 
exposed  to  temptation  such  as  that,  as  Clive  once  said,  flesh 
and  blood  could  not  bear  it,  armed  with  irresistible  power, 
and  responsible  only  to  the  corrupt,  turbulent,  distracted, 
ill-formed  Company,  situated  at  such  a distance  that  the 
average  interval  between  the  sending  of  a dispatch  and  the 
receipt  of  an  answer  was  above  a year  and  a half  ? Accord- 
ingly, during  the  five  years  which  followed  the  departure  of 
Clive  from  Bengal,  the  misgovernment  of  the  English  was 
carried  to  a point  such  as  seems  hardly  compatible  with  the 
very  existence  of  society.  The  Roman  proconsul,  who,  in  a 
year  or  two,  squeezed  out  of  a province  the  means  of  rear- 
ing marble  palaces  and  baths  on  the  shores  of  Campania,  of 
drinking  from  amber,  of  feasting  on  singing  birds,  of  ex- 
hibiting  armies  of  gladiators  and  flocks  of  camelopards  ; th6 
Spanish  viceroy,  who,  leaving  behind  him  the  curses  ol 
Mexico  or  Lima,  entered  Madrid  with  a long  train  of  gilded 
coaches,  and  of  sumpter-horses  trapped  and  shod  with  silver, 
were  now  outdone.  Cruelty,  indeed,  properly  so  called, 
was  not  among  the  vices  of  the  servants  of  the  Company. 
But  cruelty  itself  could  hardly  have  produced  greater  evils 
than  sprang  from  their  unprincipled  eagerness  to  be  rich. 
Tlr;y  pulled  down  their  creature,  Meer  Jaffier.  They  set 
up  in  his  place  another  Nabob,  named  Meer  Cossim.  But 
M 3er  Cossim  had  parts  and  a will ; and,  though  sufficiently 
inclined  to  oppress  his  subjects  himself,  he  could  not  bear  to 
see  them  ground  to  the  dust  by  oppressions  which  yielded 
him  no  profit,  nay,  which  destroyed  his  revenue  in  the  very 
source.  The  English  accordingly  pulled  down  Meer  Cossim, 
and  set  up  Meer  Jaffier  again;  and  Meer  Cossim,  after  ro- 
venging  himself  by  a massacre  surpassing  in  atrocity  that  of 
the  Black  Hole,  fled  to  the  dominions  of  the  Nabob  of  Oude. 
At  every  one  of  these  revolutions,  the  new  prince  divided 
among  his  foreign  masters  whatever  could  be  scraped  to- 
gether in  the  treasury  of  his  fallen  predecessor.  The  im- 
tnense  population  of  his  dominions  was  grTen  up  as  a prey 


442  magaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

to  those  who  had  made  him  a sovereign,  and  who  could  urn 
make  him.  The  servants  of  the  Company  obtained,  not  for 
their  employers,  but  for  themselves,  a monopoly  of  almost 
the  whole  internal  trade.  They  forced  the  natives  to  buy 
dear  and  to  sell  cheap.  They  insulted  with  impunity  the  tri- 
bunals, the  police,  and  the  fiscal  authorities  of  the  country. 
They  covered  with  their  protection  a set  of  native  depen- 
dents who  ranged  through  the  provinces,  spreading  desola- 
tion and  terror  wherever  they  appeared.  Every  servant  of 
a British  factor  was  armed  with  all  the  ] ower  of  his  mas- 
ter ; and  his  master  was  armed  with  nil  the  power  of  the 
Company.  Enormous  fortunes  were  thus  rapidly  accumu- 
lated at  Calcutta,  while  thirty  millions  of  human  beings 
were  reduced  to  the  extremity  of  wretchedness.  They  had 
been  accustomed  to  live  under  tyranny,  but  never  under 
tyranny  like  this.  They  found  the  little  finger  of  the  Com- 
pany thicker  than  the  loins  of  Surajah  D owl  ah.  Under 
their  old  masters  they  had  at  least  one  resource  : when  the 
evil  became  insupportable,  the  people  rose  and  pulled  down 
the  government.  But  the  English  government  was  not  to 
be  so  shaken  off.  That  government,  oppressive  as  the  most 
oppressive  form  of  barbarian  despotism,  was  strong  with  all 
the  strength  of  civilization.  It  resembled  the  government 
of  evil  Genii,  rather  than  the  government  of  human  tyrants. 
Even  despair  could  not  inspire  the  soft  Bengalee  with  cour- 
age to  confront  men  of  English  breed,  the  hereditary  nobil- 
ity of  mankind,  whose  skill  and  valor  had  so  often  triumphed 
in  spite  of  tenfold  odds.  The  unhappy  race  never  attempted 
resistance.  Sometimes  they  submitted  in  patient  misery. 
Sometimes  they  fled  from  flic  white  man,  as  their  fathers 
had  been  used  to  fly  from  the  Mahratta;  and  the  palanquin 
of  the  English  traveller  was  often  carried  through  silent  vil- 
lages and  towns,  which  the  report  of  his  approach  had  made 
desolate. 

The  foreign  lords  of  Bengal  were  naturally  objects  o£ 
hatred  to  all  the  neighboring  powers ; and  to  all  the  haughty 
race  presented  a dauntless  front.  The  English  armies,  every- 
where outnumbered,  were  everywhere  victorious.  A suc- 
cession of  commanders,  formed  in  the  school  of  Clive, 
still  maintained  the  fame  of  their  country.  “It  must  be 
acknowledged,”  says  the  Mussulman  historian  of  those  times, 
“ that  this  nation’s  presence  of  mind,  firmness  of  temper,  and 
undaunted  bravery,  are  past  all  question.  They  join  the 
most  resolute  courage  to  the  most  cautious  prudence  \ not 


tout)  ctrrl. 


m 


h&ve  they  their  equals  in  the  art  of  ranging  themselves  in 
battle  array  and  fighting  in  order.  If  to  so  many  military 
qualifications  they  knew  how  to  join  the  arts  of  government, 
if  they  exerted  as  much  ingenuity  and  solicitude  in  relieving 
the  people  of  God,  as  they  do  in  whatever  concerns  their 
military  affairs,  no  nation  in  the  world  would  be  preferable 
to  them,  or  worthier  of  command.  But  the  people  under 
their  dominion  groan  everywhere,  and  are  reduced  to  pov- 
erty and  distress.  Oh  God  ! come  to  the  assistance  of  thine 
afflicted  servants,  and  deliver  them  from  the  oppressions 
which  they  suffer.” 

It  was  impossible,  however,  that  even  the  military  estab- 
lishment should  long  continue  exempt  from  the  vices  which 
pervaded  every  othe^  part  of  the  government.  Rapacity, 
luxury,  and  the  spirit  of  insubordination  spread  from  the 
civil  service  to  the  officers  of  the  army,  and  from  the  officers 
to  the  soldiers.  The  evil  continued  to  grow  till  every  mess- 
room  became  the  seat  of  conspiracy  and  cabal,  and  till  the 
sepoys  could  be  kept  in  order  only  by  wholesale  execu- 
tions. 

At  length  the  state  of  things  in  Bengal  began  to  excite 
uneasiness  at  home.  A succession  of  revolutions ; a dis- 
organized administration  ; the  natives  pillaged,  yet  the  Com- 
pany not  enriched  ; every  fleet  bringing  back  fortunate  ad- 
venturers who  were  able  to  purchase  manors  and  to  build 
stately  dwellings,  yet  bringing  back  also  alarming  accounts 
of  the  financial  prospects  of  the  government ; war  on  the 
frontiers ; disaffection  in  the  army  ; the  national  character 
disgraced  by  excesses  resembling  those  of  Verres  and  Pi- 
zarro ; such  was  the  spectacle  which  dismayed  those  who 
were  conversant  with  Indian  affairs.  The  general  cry  was 
that  Clive,  and  Clive  alone,  could  save  the  empire  which  he 
had  founded. 

This  feeling  manifested  itself  in  the  strongest  manner  at 
a very  full  General  Court  of  Proprietors.  Men  of  all  par- 
ties, forgetting  their  feuds  and  trembling  for  their  dividends, 
exclaimed  that  Clive  was  the  man  whom  the  crisis  required, 
that  the  oppressive  proceedings  which  had  been  adopted 
respecting  his  estate  ought  to  be  dropped,  and  that  he  ought 
to  be  entreated  to  return  to  India. 

Clive  rose.  As  to  his  estate,  he  said,  he  would  make  such 
propositions  to  the  Directors,  as  would,  he  trusted,  lead  to 
an  amicable  settlement.  But  there  was  a still  greater  diffi- 
culty, It  was  proper  to  tell  them  that  he  never  would 


444  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

undertake  the  government  of  Bengal  while  his  enemy 
Sulivan  was  Chairman  of  the  Company.  The  tumult  was 
violent.  Sulivan  could  scarcely  obtain  a hearing.  An  over- 
whelming majority  of  the  assembly  was  on  Clive’s  side. 
Slilivan  wished  to  try  the  result  of  a ballot.  But,  accord- 
ing to  the  by-laws  of  the  Company,  there  can  be  no  ballot 
except  on  a requisition  signed  by  nine  proprietors ; and. 
though  hundreds  were  present,  nine  persons  could  not  be 
found  to  set  their  hands  to  such  a requisition. 

Clive  was  in  consequence  nominated  Governor  and  Com- 
mander-in-chief of  the  British  possessions  in  Bengal.  But 
he  adhered  to  his  declaration,  and  refused  to  enter  on  his 
office  till  the  event  of  the  next  election  of  Directors  slioula 
be  known.  The  contest  was  obstinate  ; but  Clive  triumphed. 
Sulivan,  lately  absolute  master  of  the  India  House,  wat 
within  a vote  of  losing  his  own  seat ; and  both  the  chairman 
and  the  deputy-chairman  were  friends  of  the  new  governor. 

Such  were  the  circumstances  under  which  Lord  Clive 
sailed  for  the  third  and  last  time  to  India.  In  May,  1765,  he 
reached  Calcutta ; and  he  found  the  whole  machine  of  gov- 
ernment even  more  fearfully  disorganized  than  he  had  an- 
ticipated. Meer  Jaffier,  who  had  some  time  before  lost  his 
eldest  son  Meeran,  had  died  while  Clive  was  on  his  voyage 
out.  The  English  functionaries  at  Calcutta  had  already  re- 
ceived from  home  strict  orders  not  to  accept  presents  from 
the  native  princes.  But,  eager  for  gain,  and  unaccustomed 
to  respect  the  commands  of  their  distant,  ignorant,  and 
negligent  masters,  they  again  set  up  the  throne  of  Bengal  to 
sale.  About  one  hundred  and  forty  thousand  pounds  ster- 
ling was  distributed  among  nine  of  the  most  powerful  ser- 
vants of  the  Company;  and,  in  consideration  of  this  bribe, 
an  infant  son  of  the  deceased  Nabob  was  placed  on  the  seat 
of  his  father.  The  news  of  the  ignominious  bargain  met 
Clive  on  his  arrival.  In  a private  letter,  written  imme- 
diately after  his  landing,  to  an  intimate  friend,  he  poured 
out  his  feelings  in  language  which,  proceeding  from  a man  so 
daring,  so  resolute,  and  so  little  given  to  theatrical  display 
of  sentiment,  seems  to  us  singularly  touching.  “ Alas ! ” he 
says,  “ how  is  the  English  name  sunk ! I could  not  avoid 
paying  the  tribute  of  a few  tears  to  the  departed  and  lost 
fame  of  the  British  nation — irrecoverablv  so,  I fear.  How- 
ever, I do  declare,  by  that  great  Being  who  is  the  searcher 
of  all  hearts,  and  to  whom  we  must  be  accountable  if  there 
be  a hereafter,  that  I am  come  out  with  a mind  superior  to 


LORD  CLIVE. 


445 


all  corruption,  and  that  I am  determined  to  destroy  these 
great  and  growing  evils,  or  perish  in  the  attempt.” 

The  Council  met,  and  Clive  stated  to  them  his  full  de- 
termination to  make  a thorough  reform,  and  to  use  for  that 
purpose  the  whole  of  the  ample  authority,  civil  and  military, 
which  had  been  confided  to  him.  Johnstone,  one  of  the 
boldest  and  worst  men  in  the  assembly,  made  some  show  of 
opposition.  Clive  interrupted  him,  and  haughtily  demanded 
whether  he  meant  to  question  the  power  of  the  new  govern- 
ment. Johnstone  was  cowed,  and  disclaimed  any  such  in- 
tention. All  the  faces  round  the  board  grew  long  and  pale ; 
and  not  another  syllable  of  dissent  was  uttered. 

Clive  redeemed  his  pledge.  He  remained  in  India  about 
a year  and  a half ; and  in  that  short  time  effected  one  of  the 
most  extensive,  difficult,  and  salutary  reforms  that  ever  was 
accomplished  by  any  statesman.  This  was  the  part  of  his 
life  on  which  he  afterwards  looked  back  with  most  pride. 
He  had  it  in  his  power  to  triple  his  already  splendid  for- 
tune ; to  connive  at  abuses  while  pretending  to  remove 
them  ; to  conciliate^  the  good-wdll  of  all  the  English  in  Ben- 
gal, by  giving  up  to  their  rapacity  a helpless  and  timid  race, 
who  knew  not  where  lay  the  island  which  sent  forth  their 
oppressors,  and  whose  complaints  had  little  chance  of  being 
heard  across  fifteen  thousand  miles  of  ocean.  He  knew  that 
if  he  applied  himself  in  earnest  to  the  work  of  reformation, 
he  should  raise  every  bad  passion  in  arms  against  him.  He 
knew  how  unscrupulous,  how  implacable,  would  be  the 
hatred  of  those  ravenous  adventurers  who,  having  counted 
on  accumulating  in  a few  months  fortunes  sufficient  to  sup- 
port peerages,  should  find  all  their  hopes  frustrated.  But 
he  had  chosen  the  good  part ; and  he  called  up  all  the  force 
of  his  mind  for  a battle  far  harder  than  that  of  Plassey.  At 
first  success  seemed  hopeless ; but  soon  all  obstacles  began 
to  bend  before  that  iron  courage  and  that  vehement  will. 
The  receiving  of  presents  from  the  natives  was  rigidly  pro- 
hibited. The  private  trade  of  the  servants  of  the  Company 
was  put  down.  The  whole  settlement  seemed  to  be  set,  as 
one  man,  against  these  measures.  But  the  inexorable  gov- 
ernor declared  that,  if  he  could  not  find  support  at  Fort 
William,  he  would  procure  it  elsewhere,  and  sent  for  some 
civil  servants  from  Madras  to  assist  low  w cv  tho 

9d!Tlir...C  jW  W..U  iO  ^ftCrtOUS  G.l  O' ^ j-O-uiOG  ill'J 

turned  Gut  of  their  offices.  The  rest  submitted  to  what  was 

inevitable  j and  in  a very  short  time  all  resistance  was  quelled* 


446  MACAtTtAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS* 

But  Clive  was  far  too  wise  a man  not  to  see  that  the 
recent  abuses  were  partly  to  be  ascribed  to  a cause  which 
could  not  fail  to  produce  similar  abuses,  as  soon  as  the  pres- 
sure of  his  strong  hand  was  withdrawn.  The  Company  had 
followed  a mistaken  policy  with  respect  to  the  remuneration 
of  its  servants.  The  salaries  were  too  low  to  afford  even 
those  indulgences  which  are  necessary  to  the  health  and  com- 
fort of  Europeans  in  a tropical  climate.  To  lay  by  a rupee 
from  such  scanty  pay  was  impossible.  It  could  not  be  sup- 
posed that  men  of  even  average  abilities  would  consent  to 
pass  the  best  years  of  life  in  exile,  under  a burning  sun, 
for  no  other  consideration  than  these  stinted  wages.  It  had 
accordingly  been  understood,  from  a very  early  period,  that 
the  Company’s  agents  were  at  liberty  to  enrich  themselves 
by  their  private  trade.  This  practice  had  been  seriously  in- 
jurious to  the  commercial  interests  of  the  corporation.  That 
very  intelligent  observer,  Sir  Thomas  Roe,  in  the  reign  of 
James  the  First,  strongly  urged  the  Directors  to  apply  a 
remedy  to  the  abuse.  “ Absolutely  prohibit  the  private 
trade,”  said  he  ; “ for  your  business  will  be  better  done.  I 
know  this  is  harsh.  Men  profess  they*  come  not  for  bare 
wages.  But  you  will  take  away  this  plea  if  you  give  great 
wages  to  their  content ; and  then  you  know  what  you  part 
from.” 

In  spite  of  this  excellent  advice,  the  Company  adhered 
to  the  old  system,  paid  low  salaries,  and  connived  at  the 
indirect  gains  of  the  agents.  The  pay  of  a member  of  Coun- 
cil was  only  three  hundred  pounds  a year.  Yet  it  was  no- 
torious that  such  a functionary  could  not  live  in  India  for 
less  than  ten  times  that  sum  ; and  it  could  not  be  expected 
that  he  would  be  content  to  live  even  handsomely  in  India 
without  laying  up  something  against  the  time  of  his  return 
to  England.  This  system,  before  the  conquest  of  Bengal, 
might  effect  the  amount  of  the  dividends  payable  to  the 
proprietors,  but  could  do  little  harm  in  any  other  way.  But 
the  Company  was  now  a ruling  body.  Its  servants  might 
still  be  called  factors,  junior  merchants,  senior  merchants. 
But  they  were  in  truth  proconsuls,  propraetors,  procurators 
of  extensive  regions.  They  had  immense  power.  Their 
regular  pay  was  universally  admitted  to  be  insufficient. 
They  were,  by  the  ancient  usage  of  the  service,  and  by  the 
implied  permission  of  their  employers,  warranted  in  enrich- 
ing themselves  by  indirect  means;  and  this  had  been  the 
origin  of  the  frightful  oppression  and  corruption  which  had 


LORD  CLIVE. 


447 


desolated  Bengal.  Clive  saw  clearly  that  it  was  absurd  to 
give  men  power,  and  to  require  them  to  live  in  penury. 
He  justly  concluded  that  no  reform  could  be  effectual  which 
should  not  be  coupled  with  a plan  for  liberally  remunera- 
ting the  civil  servants  of  the  Company.  The  Directors;  he 
knew,  were  not  disposed  to  sanction  any  increase  of  the 
salaries  out  of  their  own  treasury.  The  only  course  which 
remained  open  to  the  governor  was  one  which  exposed  him 
to  much  misrepresentation,  but  which  we  think  him  fully 
justified  in  adopting.  He  appropriated  to  the  support  of 
the  service  the  monopoly  of  salt,  which  had  formed,  down  * 
to  our  own  time,  a principal  head  of  the  Indian  revenue  ; and 
he  divided  the  proceeds  according  to  a scale  which  seems  to 
have  been  not  unreasonably  fixed.  He  was  in  consequence 
accused  by  his  enemies,  and  has  been  accused  by  historians, 
of  disobeying  his  instructions,  of  violating  his  promises,  of 
authorizing  that  very  abuse  which  it  was  his  special  mis- 
sion to  destroy,  namely  the  trade  of  the  Company’s  servants. 
But  every  discerning  and  impartial  judge  will  admit,  that 
there  was  yeally  nothing  in  common  between  the  system 
which  he  set  up  and  that  which  he  was  sent  to  destroy.  The 
monopoly  of  salt  had  been  a source  of  revenue  to  the  govern- 
ments of  India  before  Clive  was  born.  It  continued  to  be 
so  long  after  his  death.  The  civil  servants  were  clearly  en- 
titled to  a maintenance  out  of  the  revenue  ; and  all  that 
Clive  did  was  to  charge  a particular  portion  of  the  revenue 
with  their  maintenance.  He  thus,  while  he  put  an  end  to 
the  practices  by  which  gigantic  fortunes  had  been  rapidly 
accumulated,  gave  to  every  British  functionary  employed 
in  the  East  the  means  of  slowly,  but  surely,  acquiring  a 
competence.  Yet,  such  is  the  injustice  of  mankind,  that 
none  of  those  acts  which  are  the  real  stains  of  his  life  has 
drawn  on  him  so  much  obloquy  as  this  measure,  which  was 
in  truth  a reform  necessary  to  the  success  of  all  his  other 
reforms. 

He  had  quelled  the  opposition  of  the  civil  service ; that 
of  the  army  was  more  formidable.  Some  of  the  retrench- 
ments which  had  been  ordered  by  the  Directors  affected  the 
interests  of  the  military  service ; and  a storm  arose,  such  as 
even  Csesar  would  not  willingly  have  faced.  It  was  no 
light  thing  to  encounter  the  resistance  of  those  who  held  the 
power  of  the  sword,  in  a country  governed  only  by  the 
sword.  Two  hundred  English  officers  engaged  in  a con- 
spiracy against  the  ; ument,  and  determined  to  resign 


US  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


their  commissions  on  the  same  day,  not  doubting  that 
Clive  would  grant  any  terms  rather  than  see  the  army, 
on  which  alone  the  British  empire  in  the  East  rested,  left 
without  commanders.  They  little  knew  the  unconquer- 
able spirit  with  which  they  had  to  deal.  Clive  had  still 
a few  officers  round  his  person  on  whom  he  could  rely. 
He  sent  to  Fort  St.  George  for  a fresh  supply.  He  gave 
commissions  even  to  mercantile  agents  who  were  dis- 
posed to  support  him  at  this  crisis;  and  he  sent  orders  that 
every  officer  who  resigned  should  be  instantly  brought  up 
to  Calcutta.  The  conspirators  found  that  they  had  mis- 
calculated. The  governor  was  inexorable.  The  troops 
were  steady.  The  sepoys,  over  whom  Clive  had  always 
possessed  extraordinary  influence,  stood  by  him  with 
unshaken  fidelity.  The  leaders  in  the  plot  were  arrested, 
tried,  and  cashiered.  The  rest,  humbled  and  dispirited, 
begged  to  be  permitted  to  withdraw  their  resignations. 
Many  of  them  declared  their  repentance  even  with  tears. 
The  younger  offenders  Clive  treated  with  lenity.  To  the 
ringleaders  he  was  inflexibly  severe;  but  his  severity  was 
pure  from  all  taint  of  private  malevolence.  While  he 
sternly  upheld  the  just  authority  of  his  office,  he  passed 
by  personal  insults  and  injuries  with  magnanimous  dis- 
dain. One  of  the  conspirators  was  accused  of  having 
planned  the  assassination  of  the  governor,  but  Clive 
would  not  listen  to  the  charge.  “ The  officers,”  he  said, 
“are  Englishmen,  not  assassins.” 

While  he  reformed  the  civil  service  and  established  his 
authority  over  the  army,  he  was  equally  successful  in  his 
foreign  policy.  His  landing  on  Indian  ground  was  the  sig- 
nal for  immediate  peace.  The  Nabob  of  Oude,  with  a 
large  army,  lay  at  that  time  on  the  frontier  of  Bahar.  He 
had  been  joined  by  many  Afghans  and  Mahrattas,  and 
there  was  no  small  reason  to  expect  a general  coalition 
of  all  the  native  powers  against  the  English.  But  the  name 
of  Clive  quelled  in  an  instant  all  opposition.  The  enemy 
implored  peace  in  the  humblest  language,  and  submitted 
to  such  terms  as  the  new  governor  chose  to  dictate. 

At  the  same  time,  the  government  of  Bengal  was  placed 
on  a new  footing.  The  power  of  the  English  in  that  prov- 
ince had  hitherto  been  altogether  undefined.  It  was  un- 
known to  the  ancient  constitution  of  the  empire,and  it  had 
been  ascertained  by  no  compact.  It  resembled  the  power 
which,  in  the  last  decrepitude  of  the  Western  Empire,  was 
exercised  over  Italy  by  the  great  chiefs  of  foreign  mer- 


LORD  CLIVE. 


449 


eenaries,  the  Ricimers  and  the  Odoacers,  who  put  up  and 
pulled  down  at  their  pleasure  a succession  of  insignificant 
princes,  dignified  with  the  names  of  Caesar  and  Augustus. 
But  as  in  Italy,  so  in  India,  the  warlike  strangers  at  length 
found  it  expedient  to  give  to  a domination  which  had  been 
established  by  arms  the  sanction  of  law  and  ancient  prescrip- 
tion. Theodoric  thought  it  politic  to  obtain  trom  the  dis- 
tant court  of  Byzantium  a commission  appointing  him  ruler 
of  Italy ; and  Clive,  in  the  same  manner,  applied  to  the 
Court  of  Delhi  for  a formal  grant  of  the  powers  of  which  he 
already  possessed  the  reality.  The  Mogul  was  absolutely 
helpless ; and,  though  he  murmured,  had  reason  to  be  well 
pleased  that  the  English  were  disposed  to  give  solid  rupees, 
which  he  never  could  have  extorted  from  them,  in  exchange 
for  a few  Persian  characters  which  cost  him  noth'ug.  A 
bargain  was  speedily  struck ; and  the  titular  sovereign  of 
Hindostan  issued  a warrant,  empowering  the  Company  to 
collect  and  administer  the  revenues  of  Bengal,  Orissa,  and 
Bahar. 

There  was  still  a Nabob,  who  stood  to  the  British 
authorities  in  the  same  relation  in  which  the  last  drivelling 
Chilperics  and  Childerics  of  the  Merovingian  line  stood  to 
their  able  and  vigorous  Mayors  of  the  Palace,  to  Charles 
Martel  and  to  Pepin.  At  one  time  Clive  had  almost  made 
up  his  mind  to  discard  this  phantom  altogether;  but  he 
afterwards  thought  that  it  might  be  convenient  still  to  use 
the  name  of  Nabob,  particularly  in  dealings  with  other 
European  nations.  The  French,  the  Dutch,  and  the  Danes, 
would,  he  conceived,  submit  far  more  readily  to  the  author- 
ity of  the  native  Prince,  whom  they  had  always  been  ac- 
customed to  respect,  than  to  that  of  a rival  trading 
corporation.  This  policy  may,  at  that  time,  have  been 
judicious.  But  the  pretence  was  soon  found  to  be  too 
flimsy  to  impose  on  anybody ; and  it  was  altogether  laid 
aside.  The  heir  of  Meer  Jafiier  still  resides  at  Moorsheda- 
bad,  the  ancient  capital  of  his  house,  still  bears  the  title  of 
Nabob,  is  still  accosted  by  the  English  as  “ Your  Highness*” 
snd  is  still  suffered  to  retain  a portion  of  the  regal  state 
which  surrounded  his  ancestors.  A pension  of  a hundred 
and  sixty  thousand  pounds  a year  is  annually  paid  to  him 
by  the  government.  His  carriage  is  surrounded  by  guards, 
and  preceded  by  attendants  with  silver  maces.  His  person 
and  his  dwelling  are  exempted  from  the  ordinary  authority 
of  the  ministers  of  justice.  But  he  has  not  the  smallest 
Vol.  II. — 29 


450 


MACAULAYS  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


share  of  political  power,  and  is,  in  fact,  only  a noble  and 
wealthy  subject  of  the  Company. 

It  would  have  been  easy  for  Clive,  during  his  second  ad- 
ministration in  Bengal,  to  accumulate  riches,  such  as  no 
subject  in  Europe  possessed.  He  might,  indeed,  without 
subjecting  the  rich  inhabitants  of  the  province  to  any  pres- 
sure beyond  that  to  which  their  mildest  rulers  had  accus- 
tomed them,  have  received  presents  to  the  amount  of  three 
hundred  thousand  pounds  a year.  The  neighboring  princes 
would  gladly  have  paid  any  price  for  his  favor.  But  he 
appears  to  have  strictly  adhered  to  the  rules  'which  he  had 
laid  down  for  the  guidance  of  others.  The  Rajah  of  Be- 
nares offered  him  diamonds  of  great  value.  The  Nabob  of 
Oude  pressed  him  to  accept  a large  sum  of  money,  and  a 
casket  of  costly  jewels.  Clive  courteously  but  peremptorily 
refused  : and  it  should  be  observed  that  lie  made  no  merit 
of  his  refusal,  and  that  the  facts  did  not  come  to  light  till 
after  Ills  death.  lie  kept  an  exact  account  of  his  salary,  of 
his  share  of  the  profits  accruing  from  the  trade  in  salt,  and 
of  those  presents  which,  according  to  the  fashion  of  the 
East,  it  would  be  churlish  to  refuse.  Out  of  the  sum  arising 
from  these  resources  he  defrayed  the  expenses  of  his  situa- 
tion. The  surplus  he  divided  among  a few  attached  friends 
■who  had  accompanied  him  to  India.  lie  always  boasted, 
and,  as  far  as  we  can  judge,  he  boasted  with  truth,  that  his 
last  administration  diminished  instead  of  increasing  his 
fortune. 

One  large  sum  indeed  he  accepted.  Meer  Jaffier  had 
left  him  by  will  above  sixty  thousand  pounds  sterling  in 
specie  and  jewels : and  the  rules  which  had  been  recently 
laid  doivn  extended  only  to  presents  from  the  living,  and 
did  not  affect  legacies  from  the  dead.  Clive  took  the 
money,  but  not  for  himself.  He  made  the  whole  over  to 
the  Company,  in  trust  for  officers  and  soldiers  invalided  in 
their  service.  The  fund  which  still  bears  his  name,  owes 
its  origin  to  this  princely  donation.  After  a stay  of  eighteen 
months,  the  state  of  his  health  made  it  necessary  for  him  to 
return  to  Europe.  At  the  close  of  January,  1767,  he  quit- 
ted for  the  last  time  the  country,  on  whose  destinies  he  had 
exercised  so  mighty  an  influence. 

His  second  return  from  Bengal  was  not,  like  his  first, 
greeted  by  the  acclamations  of  his  countrymen.  Numerous 
causes  were  already  at  work  which  embittered  the  remain- 
ing years  of  his  life,  and  hurried  him  to  an  untimely  grave, 


LORD  CLIVE. 


451 


His  old  enemies  at  the  India  House  were  still  powerful  and 
active ; and  they  had  been  reinforced  by  a large  band  of 
allies,  whose  violence  far  exceeded  their  own.  The  whole 
crew  of  pilferers  and  oppressors  from  whom  he  had  rescued 
Bengal  persecuted  him  with  the  implacable  rancor  which 
belongs  to  such  abject  natures.  Many  of  them  even  in- 
vested  their  property  in  India  stock,  merely  that  they  might 
be  better  able  to  annoy  the  man  whose  firmness  had  set 
bounds  to  their  rapacity.  Lying  newspapers  were  set  up 
for  no  purpose  but  to  abuse  him;  and  the  temper  of  the 
public  mind  was  then  such,  that  these  arts,  which  under 
ordinary  circumstances  would  have  been  ineffectual  against 
truth  and  merit,  produced  an  extraordinary  impression. 

The  great  events  which  had  taken  place  in  India  had 
called  into  existence  a new  class  of  Englishmen,  to  whom 
their  countrymen  gave  the  name  of  Nabobs.  These  persons 
had  generally  sprung  from  families  neither  ancient  nor  opu- 
lent ; they  had  generally  been  sent  at  an  early  age  to  the 
East ; and  they  had  there  acquired  large  fortunes,  which 
they  had  brought  back  to  their  native  land.  It  was  natural 
that,  not  having  had  much  opportunity  of  mixing  with  the 
best  society,  they  should  ex3iibit  some  of  the  awkwardness 
and  some  of  the  pomposity  of  upstarts.  It  was  natural  that, 
during  their  sojourn  in  Asia,  they  should  have  acquired 
some  tastes  and  habits  surprising,  if  not  disgusting,  to  per- 
sons who  had  never  quitted  Europe.  It  Avas  natural  that, 
having  enjoyed  great  consideration  in  the  East,  they  should 
not  be  disposed  to  sink  into  obscurity  at  home  ; and  as  they 
had  money,  and  had  not  birth  or  high  connection,  it  was 
natural  that  they  should  display  a little  obtrusively  the  single 
advantage  that  they  possessed.  Wherever  they  settled 
there  was  a kind  of  feud  betAveen  them  and  the  old  nobility 
and  gentry,  similar  to  that  which  raged  in  France  between 
the  farmer-general  and  the  marquess.  This  enmity  to  the 
aristocracy  long  continued  to  distinguish  the  serArants  of  the 
Company.  More  than  tAventy  years  after  the  time  of  Avhich 
we  are  now  speaking,  Burke  pronounced  that  among  the 
Jacobins  might  be  reckoned  “ the  East  Indians  almost  to  a 
man,  who  cannot  bear  to  find  that  their  present  importance 
does  not  bear  a proportion  to  their  wealth.” 

The  Nabobs  soon  became  a most  unpopular  class  of  men. 
Some  of  them  had  in  the  East  displayed  eminent  talents, 
and  rendered  great  services  to  the  state  ; but  at  home  their 
talents  were  not  shown  to  advantage,  and  their  services 


452  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

were  little  known.  That  they  had  sprung  from  obscurity, 
that  they  had  acquired  great  wealth,  that  they  exhibited  it 
insolently,  that  they  spent  it  extravagantly,  that  they  raised 
the  price  of  everything  in  their  neighborhood,  from  fresh  eggs 
to  rotten  boroughs, that  their  liveries  outshone  those  of  dukes, 
that  their  coaches  were  finer  than  that  of  the  Lord  Mayor, 
that  the  examples  of  their  large  and  ill-governed  households 
corrupted  half  the  servants  in  the  country,  that  some  of 
them,  with  all  their  magnificence,  could  not  catch  the  tone 
of  good  society,  but,  in  spite  of  the  stud  and  the  crowd  of 
menials,  of  the  plate  and  the  Dresden  china,  of  the  venison 
and  the  Burgundy,  were  still  low  men;  these  were  things 
which  excited,  both  in  the  class  from  which  they  had  spiung 
and  in  the  class  in  which  they  attempted  to  force  themselves, 
the  bitter  aversion  which  is  the  effect  of  mingled  envy  and 
contempt.  But  when  it  was  also  rumored  that  the  fortune 
which  had  enabled  its  possessor  to  eclipse  the  Lord  Lieuten- 
ant on  the  race-ground,  or  to  carry  the  county  against  the 
head  of  a house  as  old  as  Domesday  Book,  had  been  accu- 
mulated by  violating  public  faith,  by  deposing  legitimate 
princes,  by  reducing  whole  provinces  to  beggary,  all  the 
liigher  and  better  as  well  as  all  the  low  and  evil  parts  of 
human  nature  were  stirred  against  the  wretch  who  had  ob- 
tained by  guilt  and  dishonor  the  riches  which  he  now 
lavished  with  arrogant  and  inelegant  profusion.  The  un- 
fortunate Nabob  seemed  to  be  made  up  of  those  foibles 
against  which  comedy  has  pointed  the  most  merciless  ridicule, 
and  of  those  crimes  which  have  thrown  the  deepest  gloom 
over  tragedy,  of  Turcarct  and  Ne  ro,  of  Monsieur  Jourdain 
and  Richard  the  Third.  A tempest  of  execration  and  de- 
rision, such  as  can  be  compared  only  to  that  outbreak  of 
public  feeling  against  the  Puritans  which  took  place  at  the 
time  of  the  Restoration,  burst  on  the  servants  of  the  Com- 
pany. The  humane  man  was  horror-struck  at  the  way  in 
which  they  had  got  their  money,  the  thrifty  man  at  the  way 
in  which  they  spent  it.  The  Dilettante  sneered  at  their 
want  of  taste.  The  Maccaroni  black-balled  them  as  vulgar 
fellows.  Writers  the  most  unlike  in  sentiment  and  style, 
Methodists  and  libertines,  philosophers  and  buffoons,  were 
for  once  on  the  same  side.  It  is  hardly  too  much  to  say 
that,  during  a space  of  about  thirty  years,  the  whole  lighter 
literature  of  England  was  colored  by  the  feelings  which  we 
have  described.  Foote  brought  on  the  stage  an  Anglo- 
Indian  chief,  dissolute,  ungenerous,  and  tyrannical,  ashamed 


LORD  CLIVE. 


453 


of  the  humble  friends  of  his  youth,  hating  the  aristocracy, 
yet  childishly  eager  to  be  numbered  among  them,  squander- 
ing his  wealth  on  pandars  and  flatterers,  tricking  out  his 
chairman  with  the  most  costly  hot-house  flowers,  and  as- 
tounding the  ignorant  with  jargon  about  rupees,  lacs,  and 
\aghires.  Mackenzie,  with  more  delicate  humor,  depicted 
i plain  country  family  raised  by  the  Indian  acquisitions  of 
one  of  its  members  to  sudden  opulence,  and  exciting  derision 
Oy  an  awkward  mimicry  of  the  manners  of  the  great.  Cow- 
per  in  that  lofty  expostulation  which  glows  with  the  very 
spirit  of  the  Hebrew  poets,  placed  the  oppression  of  India 
foremost  in  the  list  of  those  national  crimes  for  which  God 
had  punished  England  with  years  of  disastrous  war,  with 
discomfiture  in  her  own  seas,  and  with  the  loss  of  her  trans- 
atlantic empire.  If  any  of  our  readers  will  take  the  trouble 
to  search  in  the  dusty  recesses  of  circulating  libraries  for 
some  novel  published  sixty  years  ago,  the  chance  is  that  the 
villain  or  sub-villain  of  the  story  will  prove  to  be  a savage 
old  Nabob,  with  an  immense  fortune,  a tawny  complexion, 
a bad  liver,  and  a worse  heart. 

Such,  as  far  as  we  can  now  judge,  was  the  feeling  of  the 
country  respecting  Nabobs  in  general.  And  Clive  was  em- 
inently the  Nabob,  the  ablest,  the  most  celebrated,  the  high- 
est in  rank,  the  highest  in  fortune,  of  all  the  fraternity.  His 
wealth  was  exhibited  in  a manner  which  could  not  fail  to 
excite  odium.  He  lived  with  great  magnificence  in  Berkeley 
Square.  He  reared  one  place  in  Shropshire  and  another  at 
Claremont.  His  parliamentary  influence  might  vie  with 
that  of  the  greatest  families.  But  in  all  this  splendor  and 
power  envy  found  something  to  sneer  at.  On  some  of  his 
relations  wealth  and  dignity  seem  to  have  sat  as  awkwardly 
as  on  Mackenzie’s  Margery  Mushroom.  Nor  was  he  him- 
self, with  all  his  great  qualities,  free  from  those  weaknesses 
which  the  satirists  of  that  age  represented  as  characteristic 
of  his  whole  class.  In  the  field,  indeed,  his  habits  were  re- 
markably simple.  He  was  constantly  on  horseback,  was 
never  seen  but  in  his  uniform,  never  wore  silk,  never  entered 
a palanquin,  and  was  content  with  the  plainest  fare.  But 
when  he  was  no  longer  at  the"  head  of  an  army,  he  laid  aside 
this  Spartan  temperance  for  the  ostentatious  luxury  of  a 
Sybarite.  Though  his  person  was  ungraceful,  and  though 
his  harsh  features  was  redeemed  from  vulgar  ugliness  only 
by  their  stern,  dauntless,  and  commanding  expression,  he 
was  fond  of  rich  and  gay  clothing,  and  replenished  his  ward- 


454 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


robe  with  absurd  profusion.  Sir  John  Malcolm  gives  us  a 
letter  worthy  of  Sir  Matthew  Mite,  in  which  Clive  orders 
“ two  hundred  shirts,  the  best  and  finest  that  can  be  got  for 
love  or  money.”  A few  follies  of  this  description,  grossly 
exaggerated  by  report,  produced  an  unfavorable  impression 
on  the  public  mind.  But  this  was  not  the  worst.  Black 
stories,  of  which  the  greater  part  were  pure  inventions,  were 
circulated  touching  his  conduct  in  the  East.  lie  had  to 
bear  the  whole  odium,  not  only  of  those  bad  acts  to  which 
lie  had  once  or  twice  stooped,  but  of  all  the  bad  acts  of  all  the 
English  in  India,  of  bad  acts  committed  when  he  was  absent, 
nay,  of  bad  acts  which  he  had  manfully  opposed  and  se- 
verely punished.  The  very  abuses  against  which  he  had 
waged  an  honest,  resolute,  and  successful  war,  were  laid  to  his 
account.  lie  was,  in  fact,  regarded  as  the  personification 
of  all  the  vices  and  weaknesses  which  the  public,  with  or 
without  reason,  ascribed  to  the  English  adventurers  in  Asia. 
We  have  ourselves  heard  old  men,  who  knew  nothing  of  his 
history,  but  who  still  retained  the  prejudices  conceived  in 
their  youth,  talk  of  him  as  an  incarnate  fiend.  Johnson  al- 
ways held  this  language.  Brown,  whom  Clive  employed  to 
lay  out  his  pleasure  grounds,  was  amazed  to  see  in  the  house 
of  his  noble  employer  a chest  which  had  once  been  filled 
with  gold  from  the  treasury  of  Moorshedabad,  and  could 
not  understand  how  the  conscience  of  the  criminal  could 
suffer  him  to  sleep  with  such  an  object  so  near  to  his  bed- 
chamber. The  peasantry  of  Surrey  looked  with  mysterious 
horror  on  the  stately  house  which  was  rising  at  Claremont, 
and  whispered  that  the  great  wicked  lord  had  ordered  the 
walls  to  be  made  so  thick  in  order  to  keep  out  the  devil,  who 
would  one  day  carry  him  away  bodily.  Among  the  gaping 
clowns  who  drank  in  this  frightful  story  was  a worthless 
ugly  lad  of  the  name  of  Hunt,  since  widely  known  as 
William  Huntington,  S.  S. ; and  the  superstition  which  was 
strangely  mingled  with  the  knavery  of  that  remarkal  le  im- 
postor seems  to  have  derived  no  small  nutriment  from  the 
tales  which  he  heard  of  the  life  and  character  of  Clivo. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  impulse  which  Clive  had  given  to 
the  administration  of  Bengal  was  constantly  becoming  fainter 
and  fainter.  His  policy  was  to  a great  extent  abandoned ; the 
abuses  which  he  had  suppressed  began  to  revive ; and  at 
length  the  evils  which  a bad  government  had  engendered 
were  aggravated  by  one  of  those  fearful  visitations  which 
the  best  government  cannot  avert.  In  the  summer  of  I770i 


lOttf)  CLIVI2. 


455 


the  rains  failed ; the  earth  was  parched  up  ; the  tanks  were 
empty  ; the  rivers  shrank  within  their  beds  ; and  a famine, 
such  as  is  known  only  in  countries  where  every  household 
depends  for  support  on  its  own  little  patch  of  cultivation, 
filled  the  whole  valley  of  the  Ganges  with  misery  and  death. 
Tender  and  delicate  women,  whose  veils  had  never  been 
lifted  before  the  public  gaze,  came  forth  from  the  inner 
chambers  in  which  Eastern  jealousy  had  kept  watch  over 
their  beauty,  threw  themselves  on  the  earth  before  the  pas- 
sers-by, and,  with  loud  wailing,  implored  a handful  of  rice 
for  their  children.  The  Iloogley  every  day  rolled  do  wn 
thousands  of  corpses  close  to  the  porticoes  and  gardens  of 
the  English  conquerors.  The  very  streets  of  Calcutta  were 
blocked  up  by  the  dying  and  the  dead.  The  lean  and  feeble 
survivors  had  not  energy  enough  to  bear  the  bodies  of  their 
kindred  to  the  funeral  pile  or  the  holy  river,  or  even  to 
scare  away  the  jackals  and  vultures,  who  fed  on  human  re- 
mains in  the  face  of  day.  The  extent  of  t!?c  mortality  was 
never  ascertained  ; but  it  was  popularly  reckoned  by  millions. 
This  melancholy  intelligence  added  to  the  excitement  which 
already  prevailed  in  England  on  Indian  subjects.  The  pro- 
prietors of  East  India  stock  were  uneasy  about  their  divi- 
dends. All  men  of  common  humanity  were  touched  by  the 
calamities  of  our  unhappy  subjects ; and  indignation  soon 
began  to  mingle  itself  with  pity.  It  was  rumored  that  the 
Company’s  servants  had  created  the  famine  by  engrossing 
all  the  rice  of  the  country ; that  they  had  sold  grain  for  eight, 
ten,  twelve  times  the  price  at  which  they  had  bought  it ; that 
one  English  functionary  who,  the  year  before,  was  not  worth 
a hundred  guineas,  had,  during  that  season  of  misery,  remit- 
ted sixty  thousand  pounds  to  London.  These  charges  we 
believe  to  have  been  unfounded.  That  servants  of  the  Com- 
pany had  ventured,  since  Clive’s  departure,  to  deal  in  rice, 
is  probable.  That,  if  they  dealt  in  rice,  they  must  have 
gained  by  the  scarcity,  is  certain.  But  there  is  no  reason  for 
thinking  that  they  either  produced  or  aggravated  an  evil 
which  physical  causes  sufficiently  explain.  The  outcry  which 
was  raised  against  them  on  this  occasion  was,  we  suspect,  as 
absurd  as  the  imputations  which,  in  times  of  dearth  at  home, 
were  once  thrown  by  statesmen  and  judges,  and  are  still 
thrown  by  two  or  three  old  women,  on  the  corn  factors.  It 
was,  however,  so  loud  and  so  general  that  it  appears  to  have 
imposed  even  on  an  intellect  raised  so  high  above  vulgar  pre- 
judices as  that  of  Adam  Smith.  What  was  still  more 


456  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

extraordinary,  these  unhappy  events  greatly  increased  tho 
unpopularity  of  Lord  Clive.  lie  had  been  some  years  in 
England  when  the  famine  took  place.  None  of  his  acts  had 
the  smallest  tendency  to  produce  such  a calamity.  If  the 
servants  of  the  Company  had  traded  in  rice,  they  had  done 
so  in  direct  contravention  of  the  rule  which  he  had  laid 
down,  and,  while  in  power,  had  resolutely  enforced.  But, 
in  the  eyes  of  his  countrymen,  he  was,  as  we  have  said,  the 
Nabob,  the  Anglo-Indian  character  personified  ; and,  while 
he  was  building  and  planting  in  Surrey,  he  was  held  re- 
sponsible for  all  the  effects  of  a dry  season  in  Bengal. 

Parliament  had  hitherto  bestowed  very  little  attention  on 
our  Eastern  possessions.  Since  the  death  of  George  the 
Second,  a rapid  succession  of  weak  administrations,  each  of 
which  was  in  turn  flattered  and  betrayed  by  the  Court,  had 
held  the  semblance  of  power.  Intrigues  in  the  palace,  riots 
in  the  capital,  and  insurrectionary  movements  in  the  Amer- 
ican colonies,  had  left  the  advisers  of  the  crown  little  leisure 
to  study  Indian  politics.  When  they  did  interfere,  their  inter- 
ference was  feeble  and  irresolute.  Lord  Chatham  indeed, 
during  the  short  period  of  his  ascendency  in  the  councils  of 
George  the  Third,  had  meditated  a bold  attack  on  the  Com- 
pany. But  his  plans  were  rendered  abortive  by  the  strange 
malady  which  about  that  time  began  to  overcloud  his 
splendid  genius. 

At  length,  in  1772,  it  was  generally  felt  that  Parliament 
could  no  longer  neglect  the  affairs  of  India.  The  Government 
was  stronger  than  any  which  had  held  power  since  the  breach 
between  Mr.  Pitt  and  the  great  Whig  connection  in  1761. 
No  pressing  question  of  domestic  or  European  policy  re- 
quired the  attention  of  public  men.  There  was  a short  and 
delusive  lull  between  two  tempests.  The  excitement  pro- 
duced by  the  Middlesex  election  was  over ; the  discontents 
of  America  did  not  yet  threaten  civil  war;  financial  diffi- 
culties of  the  Company  brought  on  a crisis  ; the  Ministers 
were  forced  to  take  up  the  subject;  and  the  whole  storm, 
which  had  long  been  gathering,  now  broke  at  once  on  the 
head  of  Clive. 

His  situation  was  indeed  singularly  unfortunate.  He 
was  hated  throughout  the  country,  hated  at  the  India 
House,  hated,  above  all,  by  those  wealthy  and  powerful  ser- 
vants of  the  Company,  whose  rapacity  and  tyranny  lie  had 
withstood.  He  had  to  bear  the  double  odium  of  his  bad  and 
of  his  good  actions,  of  every  Indian  abuse  and  of  every  Indian 


LORD  CLIVE. 


457 


reform.  The  state  of  the  political  world  was  such  that  he 
could  count  on  the  support  of  no  powerful  connection. 
The  party  to  which  he  had  belonged,  that  of  George  Gren- 
ville, had  been  hostile  to  the  Government,  and  yet  had  never 
cordially  united  with  the  other  sections  of  the  Opposition, 
with  the  little  band  which  still  followed  the  fortunes  of  Lord 
Chatham,  or  with  the  large  and  respectable  body  of  which 
Lord  Rockingham  was  the  acknowledged  leader.  George 
Grenville  was  now  dead  : his  followers  were  scattered  ; and 
Clive,  unconnected  with  any  of  the  powerfu  factions  which 
divided  the  Parliament,  could  reckon  only  on  the  votes 
of  those  members  who  were  returned  by  himself.  His  ene- 
mies, particularly  those  who  were  the  enemies  of  his  virtues, 
ware  unscrupulous,  ferocious,  implacable.  Their  malevolence 
aimed  at  nothing  less  than  the  utter  ruin  of  his  fame  and 
fortune.  They  wished  to  see  him  expelled  from  Parlia- 
ment, to  see  liis  spurs  chopped  off,  to  see  his  estate  con 
fiscated ; and  it  may  be  doubted  whether  even  such  a result 
as  this  would  have  quenched  their  thirst  for  revenge. 

Clive’s  parliamentary  tactics  resembled  his  military 
tactics.  Deserted,  surrounded,  outnumbered,  and  with  every- 
thing at  stake,  he  did  not  even  deign  to  stand  on  the  defen- 
sive, but  pushed  boldly  forward  to  the  attack.  At  an  early 
stage  of  the  discussions  on  Indian  affairs  he  rose,  and  in  a 
long  and  elaborate  speech  vindicated  himself  from  a large 
part  of  the  accusations  which  had  been  brought  against  him, 
He  is  said  to  have  produced,  a great  impression  on  his 
audience.  Lord  Chatham,  who,  now  the  ghost  of  his  former 
self,  loved  to  haunt  the  scene  of  his  glory,  was  that  night 
under  the  gallery  of  the  House  of  Commons,  and  declared 
that  he  had  never  heard  a finer  speech.  It  was  subsequently 
printed  under  Clive’s  direction,  and,  when  the  fullest  allow- 
ance has  been  made  for  the  assistance  which  he  may  have 
obtained  from  literary  friends,  proves  him  to  have  possessed, 
not  merely  strong  sense  and  manly  spirit,  but  talents  both 
for  disquisition  and  declamation  which  assiduous  culture 
might  have  improved  into  the  highest  excellence.  He  con- 
fined his  defence  on  this  occasion  to  the  measures  of  his  last 
administration,  and  succeeded  so  far  that  his  enemies  thence- 
forth thought  it  expedient  to  direct  their  attacks  chiefly 
against  the  earlier  part  of  his  life. 

The  earlier  part  of  his  life  unfortunately  presented  some 
assailable  points  to  their  hostility.  A committee  was  chosen 
by  ballot  to  inquire  info  the  affairs  of  India ; and  by  this 


458  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

committee  the  whole  history  of  that  great  revolution  which 
threw  down  Su raj  all  Dow lan  and  raised  Meer  Jafiier  was 
sifted  with  malignant  care.  Clive  was  subjected  to  tho 
most  unsparing  examination  and  cross-examination,  and  after- 
wards bitterly  complained  that  he,  the  Baron  of  Plassey, 
had  been  treated  like  a sheep-stealer.  The  boldness  and  in- 
genuousness of  his  replies  would  alone  suffice  to  show  Low 
alien  from  his  nature  were  the  frauds  to  which,  :n  the 
course  of  his  eastern  negotiations,  he  had  sometimes  de- 
scended. He  avowed  the  arts  which  he  had  employed  to 
deceive  Omicliund,  and  resolutely  said  that  he  was  not 
ashamed  of  them,  and  that,  in  the  same  circumstances,  he 
would  again  act  in  the  same  manner.  He  admitted  that  he  had 
received  immense  sums  from  Meer  Jafiier ; but  he  had  denied 
that,  in  doing  so,  he  had  violated  any  obligation  of  morality 
or  honor.  He  laid  claim,  on  the  contrary,  and  not  without 
some  reason,  to  the  praise  of  eminent  disinterestedness. 
He  described  in  vivid  language  the  situation  in  which  his 
victory  had  placed  him ; great  princes  dependent  on  his 
pleasure ; an  opulent  city  afraid  of  being  given  up  to  plun- 
der; wealthy  bankers  bidding  against  each  other  for  his 
smiles ; vaults  piled  with  gold  and  jewels  thrown  open  to 
him  alone.  “ By  God,  Mr.  Chairman,”  he  exclaimed,  “ at 
this  moment  I stand  astonished  at  my  own  moderation.” 

The  inquiry  was  so  extensive  that  the  House  rose  before 
it  had  been  completed.  It  was  continued  in  the  following 
session.  When  at  length  the  committee  had  concluded  its 
labors,  enlightened  and  impartial  men  had  little  difficulty  in 
making  up  their  minds  as  to  the  result.  It  was  clear  that 
Clive  had  been  guilty  of  some  acts  wdiich  it  is  impossible  to 
vindicate  without  attacking  the  authority  of  all  the  most 
sacred  laws  which  regulate  the  intercourse  of  individuals 
and  of  states.  But  it  was  equally  clear  that  he  had  displayed 
great  talents,  and  even  great  virtues ; that  he  had  rendered 
eminent  services  both  to  his  country  and  to  the  people  of 
India ; and  that  it  was  in  truth  not  for  his  dealings  with 
Meer  Jaffier,  nor  for  the  fraud  which  he  had  practised  on 
Omicliund,  but  for  his  determined  resistance  to  avarice  and 
tyranny,  that  he  was  now  called  in  question. 

C.  rdinary  criminal  justice  knows  nothing  of  set-off.  Tho 
greatest  desert  cannot  be  pleaded  in  answer  to  a charge  of 
the  slightest  transgression.  If  a man  has  sold  beer  on  Sun- 
day morning,  it  is  no  defence  that  lie  has  saved  the  life  of  a 
fellow-creature  at  the  risk  of  his  own.  If  he  has  harnessed 


L0&1D  o tit  SI. 


469 


a Newfoundland  dog  to  his  little  child’s  carriage  it  is  no 
defence  that  he  was  wounded  at  Waterloo.  But  it  is  not  in 
this  way  that  we  ought  to  deal  with  men  who,  raised  far 
above  ordinary  restraints,  and  tried  by  far  more  than  ordinary 
temptations,  are  entitled  to  a more  than  ordinary  meas- 
ure of  indulgence.  Such  men  should  be  judged  by  their 
contemporaries  as  they  will  be  judged  by  posterity.  Their 
bad  actions  ought  not,  indeed,  to  be  called  good  : but  their 
good  and  bad  actions  ought  to  be  fairly  weighed ; and  if  on 
the  whole  the  good  preponderate,  the  sentence  ought  to 
be  one,  not  merely  of  acquittal,  but  of  approbation.  Not  a 
single  great  ruler  in  history  can  be  absolved  by  a judge  who 
fixes  his  eye  inexorably  on  one  or  two  unjustifiable  acts. 
Bruce  the  deliverer  of  Scotland,  Maurice  the  deliverer  of 
Germany,  William  the  deliverer  of  Holland,  his  great  de- 
scendant the  deliverer  of  England,  Murray  the  good  regent, 
Cosmo  the  father  of  his  country,  Henry  the  Fourth  of 
France,  Peter  the  Great  of  Russia,  how  would  the  best  of 
them  pass  such  a scrutiny  ? History  takes  wider  views ; 
and  the  best  tribunal  for  great  political  cases  is  the  tri- 
bunal which  anticipates  the  verdict  of  history. 

Reasonable  and  moderate  men  of  all  parties  felt  this  in 
Clive’s  case.  They  could  not  pronounce  him  blameless ; 
but  they  were  not  disposed  to  abandon  him  to  that  low- 
minded  and  rancorous  pack  who  had  run  him  down  and 
were  eager  to  worry  him  to  death.  Lord  North,  though  not 
very  friendly  to  him,  was  not  disposed  to  go  to  extremities 
against  him.  While  the  inquiry  was  still  in  progress,  Clive, 
who  had  some  years  before  been  created  a Knight  of  the 
Bath,  was  installed  with  great  pomp  in  Henry  the  Seventh’s 
Chapel.  He  was  soon  after  appointed  Lord  Lieutenant  of 
Shropshire.  When  he  kissed  hands,  George  the  Third,  who 
had  always  been  partial  to  him,  admitted  him  to  a private 
audience,  talked  to  him  half  an  hour  on  Indian  politics,  and 
was  visibly  affected  when  the  persecuted  general  spoke  of 
his  services  and  of  the  way  in  which  they  had  been  re- 
quited. 

At  length  the  charges  came  in  a definite  form  before  the 
House  of  Commons.  Burgoyne,  chairman  of  the  committee, 
a man  of  wit,  fashion,  and  honor,  an  agreeable  dramatic 
writer,  an  officer  whose  courage  was  never  questioned,  and 
whose  skill  was  at  that  time  highly  esteemed,  appeared  as  the 
accuser.  The  members  of  the  administration  took  different 
sides  5 for  in  that  age  all  questions  were  open  questions. 


460  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  whitings. 

except  such  as  were  brought  forward  by  the  Government, 
or  such  as  implied  some  censure  on  the  Government.  Thur- 
low,  the  Attorney  General,  was  among  the  assailants. 
Wedderburne,  the  Solicitor  General,  strongly  attached  to 
Clive,  defended  his  friend  with  extraordinary  force  of  argu 
ment  and  language.  It  is  a curious  circumstance  that,  some 
years  later,  Thurlow  was  the  most  conspicuous  champion  of 
Warren  Hastings,  while  Wedderburne  was  among  the  most 
unrelenting  persecutors  of  that  great  though  not  faultless 
statesman.  Clive  spoke  in  his  own  defence  at  less  length 
and  with  less  art  than  in  the  preceding  year,  with  much 
energy  and  pathos.  He  recounted  his  great  actions  and  his 
Yrongs ; and,  after  bidding  his  hearers  remember,  that  they 
were  about  to  decide  not  only  on  his  honor  but  their  own, 
he  retired  from  the  House. 

The  Commons  resolved  that  acquisitions  made  by  the 
arms  of  the  State  belong  to  the  State  alone,  and  that  it  is 
illegal  in  the  servants  of  the  State  to  appropriate  such 
acquisitions  to  themselves.  They  resolved  that  this  whole- 
some rule  appeared  to  have  been  systematically  violated  by 
the  English  functionaries  in  Bengal.  On  a subsequent  day 
they  went  a step  farther,  and  resolved  that  Clive  had,  by 
means  of  the  power  which  he  possessed  as  commander  of 
the  British  forces  in  India,  obtained  large  sums  from  Meer 
Jaffier.  Here  the  Commons  stopped.  They  had  voted  the 
major  and  minor  of  Burgoync’s  syllogism ; but  they  shrank 
from  drawing  the  logical  conclusion.  When  it  was  moved 
that  Lord  Clive  had  abused  his  powers,  and  set  an  evil  ex- 
ample to  the  servants  of  the  public,  the  previous  question 
was  put  and  carried.  At  length,  long  after  the  sun  had 
risen  on  an  animated  debate,  Wedderburne  moved  that  Lord 
Clive  had  at  the  same  time  rendered  great  and  meritorious 
services  to  his  country ; and  this  motion  passed  without  a 
division. 

The  result  of  this  memorable  inquiry  appears  to  us,  on 
the  whole,  honorable  to  the  justice,  moderation,  and  discern- 
ment of  the  Commons.  They  had  indeed  no  great  tempta- 
tion to  do  wrong.  They  would  have  been  very  bad  judges 
of  an  accusation  brought  against  Jenkinson  or  against 
Wilkes.  But  the  question  respecting  Clive  was  not  a party 
question  ; and  the  House  accordingly  acted  with  the  good 
sense  and  good  feeling  which  may  always  be  expected 
from  an  assembly  of  English  gentlemen  not  blinded  by 
faction. 


LORD  CLIVE. 


461 


The  equitable  and  temperate  proceedings  of  the  British 
Parliament  were  set  off  to  the  greatest  advantage  by  a foil. 
The  wretched  government  of  Lewis  the  Fifteenth  had  mur- 
dered, directly  or  indirectly,  almost  every  Frenchman  who 
had  served  his  country  with  distinction  in  the  East.  Labour* 
donnais  was  flung  into  the  Bastile,  and  after  years  of  suffering 
left  it  only  to  die.  Dupleix,  stripped  of  his  immense  for- 
tune, and  broken-hearted  by  humiliating  attendance  in  ante- 
chambers, sank  into  an  obscure  grave.  Lally  was  dragged 
to  the  common  place  of  execution  with  a gag  between  his 
lips.  The  Commons  of  England,  on  the  otl>er  hand,  treated 
their  living  captain  with  that  discriminating  justice  which  is 
seldom  shown  except  to  the  dead.  They  laid  down  sound 
general  principles ; they  delicately  pointed  out  where  he 
had  deviated  from  those  principles  ; and  they  tempered  the 
gentle  censure  with  liberal  eulogy#  The  contrast  struck 
Voltaire,  always  partial  to  England,  and  always  eager  to 
expose  the  abuses  of  the  Parliaments  of  France.  Indeed  he 
seems,  at  this  time,  to  have  meditated  a history  of  the  con- 
quest of  Bengal.  lie  mentioned  his  design  to  Dr.  Moore 
when  that  amusing  writer  visited  him  at  Ferncy.  Wedder- 
burne  took  great  interest  in  the  matter,  and  pressed  Clive 
to  furnish  materials.  Had  the  plan  been  carried"  into  execu- 
tion, we  have  no  doubt  that  Voltaire  would  have  produced 
a book  containing  much  lively  and  picturesque  narrative, 
many  just  and  humane  sentiments  poignantly  expressed, 
many  grotesque  blunders,  many  sneers  at  the  Mosaic  chron- 
ology, much  scandal  about  the  Catholic  missionaries,  and 
much  sublime  theo-philanthropy,  stolen  from  the  Hew  Testa- 
ment, and  put  into  the  mouths  of  virtuous  and  philosophical 
Brahmins. 

Clive  was  now  secure  in  the  enjoyment  of  his  fortune 
and  his  honors.  He  was  surrounded  by  attached  friends 
and  relations;  and  he  had  not  yet  passed  the  season  of 
vigorous  bodily  and  mental  exertion.  But  clouds  had  long 
been  gathering  over  his  mind,  and  now  settled  on  it  in  thick 
darkness.  From  early  youth  he  had  been  subject  to  fits  of 
that  strange  melancholy  “ which  rejoiceth  exceedingly  and 
is  glad  when  it  can  find  the  grave.”  While  still  a writer  at 
Madras,  he  had  twice  attempted  to  destroy  himself.  Busi- 
ness and  prosperity  had  produced  a salutary  effect  on  his 
spirits.  In  India,  while  he  was  occupied  by  great  affairs,  in 
England,  while  wealth  and  rank  had  still  the  charm  of  nov- 
elty, he  had  borne  up  against  his  constitutional  misery. 


462  macatxlay*s  MiscEtLAtffcotrs  wnmNGg. 

But  lie  had  now  nothing  to  do  and  nothing  to  wish  for. 
Ills  active  spirit  in  an  inactive  situation  drooped  and 
withered  liice  a plant  in  an  uncongenial  air.  The  malignity 
with  which  his  enemies  had  pursued  him,  the  indignity  with 
which  he  had  been  treated  by  the  committee,  the  censure, 
lenient  as  it  was,  which  the  House  of  Commons  had  pro* 
nounced,  the  knowledge  that  he  was  regarded  by  a large 
portion  of  his  countrymen  as  a cruel  and  perfidious  tyrant, 
all  concurred  to  irritate  and  depress  him.  In  the  mean 
time  his  temper  was  tried  by  acute  physical  suffering. 
During  his  long  residence  in  tropical  climates,  he  had  con- 
tracted several  painful  distempers.  In  order  to  obtain  ease 
he  called  in  the  help  of  opium ; and  he  was  gradually  en- 
slaved by  this  treacherous  ally.  To  the  last,  however,  his 
genius  occasionally  flashed  through  the  gloom.  It  was  said 
that  he  would  sometimes,  after  sitting  silent  and  torpid  for 
hours,  rouse  himself  to  the  discussion  of  some  great  question, 
would  display  in  full  vigor  all  the  talents  of  the  soldier  and 
the  statesman,  and  would  then  sink  back  into  his  melancholy 
repose. 

The  disputes  with  America  had  now  become  so  serious 
that  an  appeal  to  the  sword  seemed  inevitable  ; and  the 
Ministers  were  desirous  to  avail  themselves  of  the  service  of 
Clive.  Had  he  still  been  what  he  was  when  he  raised  the 
siege  of  Patna,  and  annihilated  the  Dutch  army  and  navy  at 
the  mouth  of  the  Ganges,  it  is  not  improbable  that  the  resist- 
ance of  the  Colonists  would  have  been  put  down,  and  that 
the  inevitable  separation  would  have  been  deferred  for  a 
few  years.  But  it  was  too  late.  His  strong  mind  was  fast 
sinking  under  many  kinds  of  suffering.  On  the  twenty- 
second  of  November,  1774,  he  died  by  his  own  hand.  He 
had  just  completed  his  forty-ninth  year.. 

In  the  awful  close  of  so  much  prosperity  and  glory,  the 
vulgar  saw  only  a confirmation  of  al^thcir  prejudices;  and 
some  men  of  real  piety  and  genius  so  far  forgot  the  maxims 
both  of  religion  and  of  philosophy  as  confidently  to  ascribe 
the  mournful  event  to  the  just  vengeance  of  God,  and  to  the 
horrors  of  an  evil  conscience.  It  is  with  very  different  feel- 
ings that  we  contemplate  the  spectacle  of  a great  mind 
ruined  by  the  weariness  of  satiety,  by  the  pangs  of  wounded 
honor,  by  fatal  diseases,  and  more  fatal  remedies. 

Clive  committed  great  faults;  and  we  have  not  at- 
tempted to  disguise  them.  But  his  faults,  when  weighed 
against  his  merits,  and  viewed  in  connection  with  his  temp- 


LORD  CLIVE* 


463 


tations,  do  not  appear  to  us  to  deprive  him  of  his  right  to  an 
honorable  place  in  the  estimation  of  posterity. 

From  his  first  visit  to  India  dates  the  renown  of  the 
English  arms  in  the  East.  Till  lie  appeared,  his  countrymen 
were  despised  as  mere  pedlers,  while  the  French  were  re- 
vered as  people  formed  for  victory  and  command.  His  cour- 
age and  capacity  dissolved  the  charm.  With  the  defence 
of  Arcot  commences  that  long  series  of  Oriental  triumph 
which  closes  with  the  fall  of  Ghizni.  Nor  must  we  forget 
that  he  was  only  twenty-five  years  old  when  he  approved 
himself  ripe  for  military  command.  This  is  a rare  if  not  a 
singular  distinction.  It  is  true  that  Alexander,  Conde,  and 
Charles  the  Twelfth,  won  great  battles  at  a still  earlier  age  ; 
but  those  princes  were  surrounded  by  veteran  generals  of 
distinguished  skill,  to  whose  suggestions  must  be  attrib- 
uted the  victories  of  the  Granicus,  of  Rocroi,  and  of  Narva. 
Clive,  an  inexperienced  youth,  had  yet  more  experience  than 
any  of  those  who  served  under  him.  He  had  to  form  him- 
self, to  form  his  officers,  and  to  form  his  army.  The  only 
man,  as  far  as  we  recollect,  who  at  an  equally  early  age  ever 
gave  equal  proof  of  talents  for  war,  was  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte. 

From  Clive’s  second  visit  to  India  dates  the  political  as- 
cendency of  the  English  in  that  country.  Ilis  dexterity  and 
resolution  realized,  in  the  course  of  a few  months,  more  than 
all  the  gorgeous  visions  which  had  floated  before  the  imagin- 
ation of  Dupleix.  Such  an  extent  of  cultivated  territory,  such 
an  amount  of  revenue,  such  a multitude  of  subjects,  was 
never  added  to  the  dominion  of  Rome  by  the  most  successful 
proconsul.  Nor  were  such  wealthy  spoils  ever  borne  under 
arches  of  triumph,  down  the  Sacred  Way,  and  through  the 
crowded  Forum,  to  the  threshold  of  Tarpeian  Jove.  The 
fame  of  those  who  subdued  Antiochus  and  Tigranes  grows 
dim  when  compared  with  the  splendor  of  the  exploits  which 
the  young  English  adventurer  achieved  at  the  head  of  an 
army  not  equal  in  numbers  to  one  half  of  a Roman  legion. 

From  Clive’s  third  visit  to  India  dates  the  purity  of  our 
Eastern  empire.  When  he  landed  in  Calcutta  in  1765,  Ben- 
gal was  regarded  as  a place  to  which  Englishmen  were  sent 
only  to  get  rich,  by  any  means,  in  the  shortest  possible  time. 
He  first  made  dauntless  and  unsparing  war  on  that  gigantic 
system  of  oppression,  extortion,  and  corruption.  In  that  war 
he  manfully  put  to  hazard  his  ease,  his  fame,  and  his  splen- 
did fortune.  The  same  sense  of  justice  which  forbids  us  to 


464 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


conceal  or  extenuate  the  faults  of  his  earlier  days  compels  us 
to  admit  that  those  faults  were  nobly  repaired.  If  the  re- 
proach of  the  Company  and  of  its  servants  has  been  taken 
away,  if  in  India  the  yoke  of  foreign  masters,  elsewhere  the 
heaviest  of  all  yokes,  has  been  found  lighter  than  that  of  any 
native  dynasty,  if  to  that  gang  of  public  robbers,  which  for- 
merly spread  terror  through  the  whole  plain  of  Bengal,  has 
succeeded  a body  ot  functionaries  not  more  highly  distin- 
guished by  ability  and  diligence  than  by  integrity,  disinter- 
estedness, and  public  spirit,  if  we  now  see  such  men  as  Munro, 
Elphinstone,  and  Metcalfe,  after  leading  victorious  armies, 
after  making  and  deposing  kings,  return,  proud  of  their  hon- 
orable poverty,  from  a land  which  once  held  out  to  every 
greedy  factor  the  hope  of  boundless  wealth,  the  praise  is  in 
no  small  measure  due  to  Clive.  His  name  stands  high  on 
the  roll  of  conquerors.  But  it  is  found  in  a better  list,  in  the 
list  of  those  who  have  done  and  suffered  much  for  the  hap- 
piness of  mankind.  To  the  warrior,  history  will  assign  a 
place  in  the  same  rank  with  Lucullus  and  Trajan.  Nor  will 
she  deny  to  the  reformer  a share  of  that  veneration  with 
which  France  cherished  the  memory  of  Turgot,  and  with 
which  the  latest  generations  of  Hindoos  will  contemplate  thg 
atatue  of  Lord  William  Bentinck. 


YON  RANKE* 

{Edinburgh  Review , October , 1840.) 

It  is  hardly  necessary  for  us  to  say  that  this  is  an  excel- 
lent book,  excellently  translated.  The  original  work  of 
Professor  Ranke  is  known  and  esteemed  wherever  German 
literature  is  studied,  and  has  been  found  interesting  even  in 
a most  inaccurate  and  dishonest  French  version.  It  is,  in- 
deed, the  work  of  a mind  fitted  both  for  minute  researches 
and  for  large  speculations.  It  is  written  also  in  an  admi- 
rable spirit,  equally  remote  from  levity  and  bigotry,  serious 
and  earnest,  yet  tolerant  and  impartial.  It  is,  therefore, 

* The  Ecclesiastical  and  Political  History  of  the  Popes  of  Rome , during  the 
Sixteenth  and  Seventeenth  Centuries.  By  Leopold  Ranke,  Professor  m the 
University  of  Berlin  : Translated  from  the  German,  by  SAUAP  Aubtjn,  3 yols. 
8yo.  London ; I34Q. 


VOX  RANKE. 


465 


with  the  greatest  pleasure  that  we  now  see  this  book  take 
its  place  among  the  English  classics.  Of  the  translation  we 
need  only  say  that  it  is  such  as  might  be  expected  from  the 
skill,  the  taste,  and  the  scrupulous  integrity  of  the  accom- 
plished lady  who,  as  an  interpreter  between  the  mind  of 
Germany  and  the  mind  of  Britain,  has  already  deserved  so 
well  of  both  countries. 

The  subject  of  this  book  has  always  appeared  to  us  singu- 
larly interesting.  How  it  was  that  Protestantism  did  so 
much,  yet  did  no  more,  how  it  was  that  the  Church  of 
Rome,  having  lost  a large  part  of  Europe,  not  only  ceased 
to  lose,  but  actually  regained  nearly  half  of  what  she  had 
lost,  is  certainly  a most  curious  and  important  question ; 
and  on  this  question  Professor  Ranke  has  thrown  far  more 
light  than  any  other  person  who  has  written  on  it. 

There  is  not,  and  there  never  was  on  this  earth,  a work 
of  human  policy  so  well  deserving  of  examination  as  the 
Roman  Catholic  Church.  The  history  of  that  Church  joins 
together  the  two  great  ages  of  human  civilization.  No 
other  institution  is  left  standing  which  carries  the  mind 
back  to  the  times  when  the  smoke  of  sacrifice  rose  from  the 
Pantheon,  and  when  camelopards  and  tigers  bounded  in  the 
Flavian  amphitheatre.  The  proudest  royal  houses  are  but 
of  yesterday,  when  compared  with  the  line  of  the  Supreme 
Pontiffs.  That  line  we  trace  back  in  an  unbroken  series 
from  the  Pope  who  crowned  Napoleon  in  the  nineteenth 
century  to  the  Pope  who  crowned  Pepin  in  the  eighth ; and 
far  beyond  the  time  of  Pepin  the  august  dynasty  extends, 
till  it  is  lost  in  the  twilight  of  fable.  The  republic  of  Venice 
came  next  in  antiquity.  But  the  republic  of  Venice  was 
modern  when  compared  with  the  Papacy  ; and  the  republic 
of  Venice  is  gone,  and  the  papacy  remains.  The  Papacy 
remains,  not  in  decay,  not  a mere  antique,  but  full  of  life 
and  useful  vigor.  The  Catholic  Church  is  still  sending  forth 
to  the  farthest  ends  of  the  world  missionaries  as  zealous  as 
those  who  landed  in  Kent  with  Augustin,  and  still  confront- 
ing hostile  kings  with  the  same  spirit  with  which  she  con- 
fronted Attila.  The  number  of  her  children  is  greater  than 
in  any  former  age.  Her  acquisitions  in  the  New  World 
have  more  than  compensated  for  what  she  has  lost  in  the 
Old.  Her  spiritual  ascendency  extends  over  the  vast  coun- 
tries which  lie  between  the  plains  of  the  Missouri  and  Cape 
Horn,  countries  which,  a century  hence,  may  not  improbably 
contain  a population  as  large  as  that  which  now  inhabits 
Von,  II. — 30 


466  macaulay's  miscellaneous  writings. 

Europe.  The  members  of  her  communion  are  certainly  not 
fewer  than  a hundred  and  fifty  millions  ; and  it  will  be  diffi- 
cult to  show  that  all  other  Christian  sects  united  amount  to 
a hundred  and  twenty  millions.  Nor  do  we  see  any  sign 
which  indicates  that  the  term  of  her  long  dominion  is  ap- 
proaching. She  saw  the  commencement  of  all  the  govern- 
ments and  of  all  the  ecclesiastical  establishments  that  now 
exist  in  the  world  ; and  we  feel  no  assurance  that  she  is  not 
destined  to  see  the  end  of  them  all.  She  was  great  and  re- 
spected before  the  Saxon  had  set  foot  on  Britain,  before  the 
Frank  had  passed  the  Rhine,  when  Grecian  eloquence  still 
flourished  in  Antioch,  when  idols  were  still  worshipped  in 
the  temple  of  Mecca.  And  she  may  still  exist  in  undimin- 
ished vigor  when  some  traveller  from  New  Zealand  shall,  in 
the  midst  of  a vast  solitude,  take  his  stand  on  a broken  arch 
of  London  Bridge  to  sketch  the  ruins  of  St.  Paul’s. 

We  often  hear  it  said  that  the  world  is  constantly  be- 
coming more  and  more  enlightened,  and  that  this  enlighten- 
ing must  be  favorable  to  Protestantism,  and  unfavorable  to 
Catholicism.  We  wish  we  could  think  so.  But  we  see 
great  reason  to  doubt  whether  this  be  a well  founded  expec- 
tation. We  see  that  during  the  last  two  hundred  and  fifty 
years  the  human  mind  has  been  in  the  highest  degree  active, 
that  it  has  made  great  advances  in  every  branch  of  natural 
philosophy,  that  it  has  produced  innumerable  inventions 
tending  to  promote  the  convenience  of  life,  that  medicine, 
surgery,  chemistry,  engineering,  have  been  very  greatly  im- 
proved, that  government,  police,  and  law  have  been  improved 
though  not  to  so  great  an  extent  as  the  physical  sciences. 
But  we  see  that,  during  these  two  hundred  and  fifty  years, 
Protestantism  has  made  no  conquests  worth  speaking  of. 
Nay,  we  believe  that,  as  far  as  there  has  been  a change,  that 
change  has,  on  the  whole,  been  in  favor  of  the  Church  of 
Rome.  We  cannot,  therefore,  feel  confident  that  the  pro- 
gress of  knowledge  will  necessarily  be  fatal  to  a system 
which  has,  to  say  the  least,  stood  its  ground  in  spite  of  the 
immense  progress  made  by  the  human  race  in  knowledge 
since  the  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth. 

Indeed  the  argument  which  we  are  considering,  seems  to 
us  to  be  founded  on  an  entire  mistake.  There  are  branches 
of  knowledge  with  respect  to  which  the  law  of  the  human 
mind  is  progress.  In  mathematics,  when  once  a proposition 
has  been  demonstrated,  it  is  never  afterwards  contested. 
Every  fresh  story  is  as  solid  a basis  iox  a new  superstructure 


toft  iutfM. 


46? 


&S  the  original  foundation  was.  Here,  therefore,  there  is  a 
constant  addition  to  the  stock  of  truth.  In  the  inductive 
sciences  again,  the  law  is  progress.  Every  day  furnishes  new 
facts,  and  thus  brings  theory  nearer  and  nearer  to  perfection. 
There  is  no  chance  that,  cither  in  the  purely  demonstrative, 
or  in  the  purely  experimental  sciences,  the  world  will  ever 
go  back  or  even  remain  stationary.  Nobody  ever  heard  of 
a reaction  against  Taylor’s  theorem,  or  of  a reaction  against 
Harvey’s  doctrine  of  the  circulation  of  the  blood. 

But  with  theology  the  case  is  very  different.  As  respects 
natural  religion, — revelation  being  for  the  present  altogether 
left  out  of  the  question, — it  is  not  easy  to  see  that  a philoso- 
pher of  the  jiresent  day  is  more  favorably  situated  than 
Thales  or  Simonides.  He  has  before  him  just  the  same  evi- 
dences of  design  in  the  structure  of  the  universe  which  the 
early  Greeks  had.  We  say  just  the  same  ; for  the  discoveries 
of  modern  astronomers  and  anatomists  have  really  added 
nothing  to  the  force  of  that  argument  which  a reflecting 
mind  finds  in  every  beast,  bird,  insect,  fish,  leaf,  flower  and 
shell.  The  reason  by  which  Socrates,  in  Xenophon’s  hear- 
ing, confuted  the  little  atheist  Aristodemus,  is  exactly  the 
reasoning  of  Paley’s  Natural  Theology.  Socrates  makes 
precisely  the  same  use  of  the  statues  of  Polycletus  and  the 
pictures  of  Zeuxis  which  Paley  makes  of  the  watch.  As  to 
the  other  great  question,  the  question,  what  becomes  of  man 
after  death,  we  do  not  see  that  a highly  educated  European, 
left  to  his  unassisted  reason,  is  more  likely  to  be  in  the  right 
than  a Blackfoot  Indian.  Not  a single  one  of  the  many 
sciences  in  which  we  surpass  the  Blackfoot  Indians  throws 
the  smallest  light  on  the  state  of  the  soul  after  the  animal 
life  is  extinct.  In  truth,  all  the  philosophers,  ancient  and 
modern,  who  have  attempted,  without  the  help  of  revelation, 
to  prove  the  immortality  of  man,  from  Plato  down  to  Frank- 
lin, appear  to  us  to  have  failed  deplorably. 

Then,  again,  all  the  great  enigmas  which  perplex  the 
natural  theologian  are  the  same  in  all  ages.  The  ingenuity 
of  a people  just  emerging  from  barbarism  is  quite  sufficient 
to  propound  those  enigmas.  The  genius  of  Locke  or  Clarke 
is  quite  unable  to  solve  them.  It  is  a mistake  to  imagine 
that  subtle  speculations  touching  the  Divine  attributes,  the 
origin  of  evil,  the  necessity  of  human  actions,  the  foundation 
of  moral  obligation,  imply  any  high  degree  of  intellectual 
culture.  Such  speculations,  on  the  contrary,  are  in  a pecu- 
liar manner  the  delight  of  intelligent  children  and  of  half 


463  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings, 

civilized  men.  The  number  of  boys  is  not  small  who,  at 
fourteen,  have  thought  enough  on  these  questions  to  be  fully 
entitled  to  the  praise  which  Voltaire  gives  to  Zadig.  “ II  en 
savait  ce  qu’on  en  a su  dans  tous  les  ages ; c’est-ardire,  fort 
peu  de  chose.”  The  book  of  Job  shows  that,  long  before 
letters  and  arts  were  known  to  Ionia,  these  vexing  questions 
were  debated  with  no  common  skill  and  eloquence,  under 
the  tents  of  the  Idumean  Emirs ; nor  has  human  reason 
in  the  course  of  three  thousand  years,  discovered  any  satis- 
factory solution  to  the  riddles  which  perplexed  Eliphaz  and 
Zophar. 

Natural  theology,  then,  is  not  a progressive  science. 
That  knowledge  of  our  origin  and  of  our  destiny  which  we 
derive  from  revelation  is  indeed  of  very  different  clearness, 
and  of  very  different  importance.  But  neither  is  revealed 
religion  of  the  nature  of  a progressive  science.  All  Divine 
truth  is,  according  to  the  doctrine  of  the  Protestant  Churches, 
recorded  in  certain  books.  It  is  equally  open  to  all  who,  in 
any  age,  can  read  those  books  ; nor  can  all  the  discoveries 
of  all  the  philosophers  in  the  world  add  a single  verse  to  any 
of  those  books.  It  is  plain,  therefore,  that  in  divinity  there 
cannot  be  a progress  analogous  to  that  which  is  constantly 
taking  place  in  pharmacy,  geology,  and  navigation.  A 
Christian  of  the  fifth  century  with  a Bible  is  neither  better 
nor  worse  situated  than  a Christian  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury with  a Bible,  candor  and  natural  acuteness  being,  of 
course,  supposed  equal.  It  matters  not  at  all  that  the  com- 
pass, printing,  gunpowder,  steam,  gas,  vaccination,  and  a 
thousand  other  discoveries  and  inventions,  which  were  un- 
known in  the  fifth  century,  are  familiar  to  the  nineteenth. 
None  of  these  discoveries  and  inventions  has  the  smallest 
bearing  on  the  question  whether  a man  is  justified  by  faith 
alone,  or  whether  the  invocation  of  saints  is  an  orthodox 
practice.  It  seems  to  us,  therefore,  that  we  have  no  security 
for  the  future  against  the  prevalence  of  any  theological 
error  that  ever  has  prevailed  in  time  past  among  Christian 
men.  We  are  confident  that  the  world  will  never  go  back 
to  the  solar  system  of  Ptolemy ; nor  is  our  confidence  in  the 
least  shaken  by  the  circumstance,  that  even  so  great  a man 
as  Bacon  rejected  the  theory  of  Galileo  with  scorn;  for 
Bacon  had  not  ail  the  means  of  arriving  at  a sound  con- 
clusion which  are  within  our  reach,  and  which  secure  people 
who  would  not  have  been  Worthy  to  mend  his  pens  from 
falling  into  his  mistakes.  But  when  we  reflect  that  Sii 


VON  RANKE. 


469 


Thomas  More  was  ready  to  die  for  the  doctrine  of  tran- 
substant.ation,  we  cannot  but  feel  some  doubt  whether  the 
doctrine  of  tran substantiation  may  not  triumph  over  all 
opposition.  More  was  a man  of  eminent  talents.  He  had 
all  the  information  on  the  subject  that  we  have,  or  that, 
while  the  world  lasts,  any  human  being  will  have.  “ This  is 
my  body,”  was  in  his  New  Testament  as  it  is  in  ours.  The 
absurdity  of  the  literal  interpretation  was  as  great  and  as 
obvious  in  the  sixteenth  century  as  it  is  now.  No  progress 
that  science  has  made,  or  will  make,  can  add  to  what  seems 
to  us  the  overwhelming  force  of  the  argument  against  the 
real  presence.  We  are,  therefore,  unable  to  understand 
why  what  Sir  Thomas  More  believed  respecting  transub- 
stantiation  may  not  be  believed  to  the  end  of  time  by  men 
equal  in  abilities  and  honesty  to  Sir  Thomas  More.  But 
Sir  Thomas  More  is  one  of  the  choice  specimens  of  human 
wisdom  and  virtue  ; and  the  doctrine  of  transubstantiation 
is  a kind  of  proof  charge.  A faith  which  stands  that  test 
will  stand  any  test.  The  prophecies  of  Brothers  and  the 
miracles  of  Prince  Ilohenlohe  sink  to  trifles  in  the  com- 
parison. 

One  reservation,  indeed,  must  be  made.  The  books  and 
traditions  of  a sect  may  contain,  mingled  with  propositions 
strictly  theological,  other  propositions,  purporting  to  rest  on 
the  same  authority  which  relate  to  physics.  If  new  dis- 
coveries should  throw  discredit  on  the  physical  propositions, 
the  theological  propositions,  unless  they  can  be  separated 
from  the  physical  propositions,  will  share  in  that  discredit. 
In  this  way,  undoubtedly,  the  progress  of  science  may  indi- 
rectly serve  the  cause  of  religious  truth.  The  Hindoo 
mythology,  for  example,  is  bound  up  with  a most  absurd 
geography.  Every  young  Brahmin,  therefore,  who  learns 
geography  in  our  colleges,  learns  to  smile  at  the  Hindoo 
mythology.  If  Catholicism  has  not  suffered  to  an  equal 
degree  from  the  Papal  decision  that  the  sun  goes  round  the 
earth,  this  is  because  all  intelligent  Catholics  now  hold,  with 
Pascal,  that,  in  deciding  the  point  at  all,  the  Church  ex- 
ceeded her  powers,  and  was,  therefore,  justly  left  destitute 
of  that  supernatural  assistance  which,  in  the  exercise  of  her 
legitimate  functions,  the  promise  of  her  Founder  authorized 
her  to  expect. 

This  reservation  affects  not  at  all  the  truth  of  our  prop- 
osition, that  divinity,  properly  so  called,  is  not  a progres- 
sive science.  A very  common  knowledge  of  history,  a very 


4f6  MACAtTLAY*S  MTSCETJiAtfTCOtTS 

little  observation  of  life,  will  suffice  to  prove  that  no  learn- 
ing, no  sagacity,  affords  a security  against  the  greatest  errors 
on  subjects  relating  to  the  invisible  world.  Bayle  and 
Chillingworth,  two  of  the  most  skeptical  of  mankind,  turned 
Catholics  from  sincere  conviction.  Johnson,  incredulous  on 
all  other  points,  was  a ready  believer  in  miracles  and  appa- 
ritions. He  would  not  believe  in  Ossian  ; but  he  was  will- 
ing to  believe  in  the  second  sight.  He  would  not  believe  in 
the  earthquake  of  Lisbon  ; but  he  was  willing  to  believe  in 
the  Cock  Lane  ghost. 

For  these  reasons  we  have  ceased  to  wonder  at  any  va- 
garies of  superstition.  We  have  seen  men,  not  of  mean  intel- 
lect or  neglected  education,  but  qualified  by  their  talents 
and  acquirements  to  attain  eminence  either  in  active  or 
speculative  pursuits,  well  read  scholars,  expert  logicians, 
keen  observers  of  life  and  manners,  prophesying,  interpret- 
ing, talking  unknown  tongues,  working  miraculous  cures, 
coming  down  with  messages  from  God  to  the  House  of 
Commons.  We  have  seen  an  old  woman,  with  no  talents 
beyond  the  cunning  of  a fortune-teller,  and  with  the  educa- 
tion of  a scullion,  exalted  into  a prophetess,  and  surrounded 
by  tens  of  thousands  of  devoted  followers,  many  of  whom 
were,  in  station  and  knowledge,  immeasurably  her  superiors; 
and  all  this  in  the  nineteenth  century ; and  all  this  in  Lon- 
don. Yet  why  not?  For  the  dealings  of  God  with  man 
no  more  has  been  revealed  to  the  nineteenth  century  than 
to  the  first,  or  to  London  than  to  the  wildest  parish  in  the 
Hebrides.  It  is  true  that,  in  those  things  which  concern 
this  life  and  this  world,  man  constantly  becomes  wiser  and 
wiser.  But  it  is  no  less  true  that,  as  respects  a higher 
power  and  a future  state,  man,  in  the  language  of  Goethe’s 
scoffing  fiend3 

“ bleibt  stets  von  gleichem  Schlag, 

Und  ist  so  wunderlich  als  wie  am  ersten  Tag.” 

The  history  of  Catholicism  strikingly  illustrates  these 
observations.  During  the  last  seven  centuries  the  public 
mind  of  Europe  has  made  constant  progress  in  every  depart- 
ment of  secular  knowledge.  But  in  religion  we  can  trace  no 
constant  progress.  The  ecclesiastical  history  of  that  long 
period  is  a history  of  movement  to  and  fro.  Four  times, 
since  the  authority  of  the  Church  of  Rome  was  established 
in  Western  Christendom,  has  the  human  intellect  risen  up 
against  her  yoke.  Twice  that  Church  remained  completely 


VON  BANKS. 


471 


victorious.  Twice  she  came  forth  from  the  conflict  bearing 
the  marks  of  cruel  wounds,  but  with  the  principle  of  life  still 
strong  within  her.  When  we  reflect  on  the  tremendous 
assaults  which  she  has  survived,  we  find  it  difficult  to  con- 
ceive in  what  way  she  is  to  perish. 

The  first  of  these  insurrections  broke  out  in  the  region 
where  the  beautiful  language  of  Oc  was  spoken.  That 
country,  singularly  favored  by  nature,  was,  in  the  twelfth 
century,  the  most  flourishing  and  civilized  portion  of  West- 
ern Europe.  It  was  in  no  wise  a part  of  France.  It  had 
a distinct  political  existence,  a distinct  national  character, 
distinct  usages,  and  a distinct  speech.  The  soil  was  fruitful 
and  well  cultivated;  and  amidst  the  cornfields  and  vine- 
yards arose  many  rich  cities,  each  of  which  was  a little 
republic,  -and  many  stately  castles,  each  of  which  contained 
a miniature  of  an  imperial  court.  It  was  there  that  the 
spirit  of  chivalry  first  laid  aside  its  terrors,  first  took  a 
humane  and  graceful  form,  first  appeared  as  the  inseparable 
associate  of  art  and  literature,  of  courtesy  and  love.  The 
other  vernacular  dialects  which,  since  the  fifth  century,  had 
sprung  up  in  the  ancient  provinces  of  the  Roman  empire, 
were  still  rude  and  imperfect.  The  sweet  Tuscan,  the  rich 
and  energetic  English,  were  abandoned  to  artisans  and 
shepherds.  No  clerk  had  ever  condescended  to  use  such 
barbarous  jargon  for  the  teaching  of  science,  for  the  record- 
ing of  great  events,  or  for  the  painting  of  life  and  manners. 
But  the  language  of  Provence  was  already  the  language  of 
the  learned  and  polite,  and  was  employed  by  numerous 
writers,  studious  - of  all  the  arts  of  composition  and  versifi- 
cation. A literature  rich  in  ballads,  in  war-songs,  in  satire, 
and,  above  all,  in  amatory  poetry,  amused  the  leisure  of  the 
knights  and  ladies,  whose  fortified  mansions  adorned  the 
banks  of  the  Rhone  and  Garrone.  With  civilization  had 
come  freedom  of  thought.  Use  had  taken  away  the  horror 
with  which  misbelievers  were  elsewhere  regarded.  No 
Norman  or  Breton  ever  saw  a Mussulman,  except  to  give 
and  receive  blows  on  some  Syrian  field  of  battle.  But  the 
people  of  the  rich  countries  which  lay  under  the  Pyrenees 
lived  in  habits  of  courteous  and  profitable  intercourse  with 
the  Moorish  kingdoms  of  Spain,  and  gave  a hospitable  wel- 
come to  skilful  leeches  and  mathematicians  who,  in  the 
schools  of  Cordova  and  Granada,  had  become  versed  in  all 
the  learning  of  the  Arabians.  The  Greek,  still  persevering, 
in  the  midst  oi  political  degradation,  the  ready  wit  and 


472  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

inquiring  spirit  of  his  fathers,  still  able  to  read  the  most  per- 
fect of  human  compositions,  still  speaking  the  most  powerful 
and  flexible  of  human  languages,  brought  to  the  marts  of 
Narbonne  and  Toulouse,  together  with  the  drugs  and  silks 
of  remote  climates,  bold  and  subtle  theories  long  unknown 
to  the  ignorant  and  incredulous  West.  The  Paulician 
theology,  a theology  in  which,  as  it  should  seem,  many  of 
the  doctrines  of  the  modern  Calvinists  were  mingled  with 
some  doctrines  derived  from  the  ancient  Manichees,  spread 
rapidly  through  Piovence  and  Languedoc.  The  clergy  of 
the  Catholic  Church  were  regarded  with  loathing  and  con- 
tempt. “ Viler  than  » priest,”  “ I would  as  soon  be  a priest,” 
became  proverbial  expressions.  The  Papacy  had  lost  all 
authority  with  all  classes,  from  the  great  feudal  princes 
down  to  the  cultivators  of  the  soil. 

The  danger  to  the  hierarchy  was  indeed  formidable. 
Only  one  transalpine  nation  had  emerged  from  barbarism  ; 
and  that  nation  had  thrown  off  all  respect  for  Rome.  Only 
one  of  the  vernacular  languages  of  Europe  had  yet  been 
extensively  employed  for  lite/ary  purposes ; and  that  lan- 
guage was  a machine  in  the  bands  of  heretics.  The  geo- 
graphical position  of  the  sectaries  made  the  danger  peculiarly 
formidable.  They  occupied  a central  region  communicating 
directly  with  France,  with  Italy,  and  with  Spain.  The 
provinces  which  were  still  untainted  were  separated  from 
each  other  by  this  infected  district.  Under  these  circum- 
stances, it  seemed  probable  that  a smglc  generation  would 
suffice  to  spread  the  reformed  doctrine  to  Lisbon,  to  London, 
and  to  Naples.  But  this  was  not  to  be.  Rome  cried  for 
help  to  the  warriors  of  northern  France.  She  appealed  at 
once  to  their  superstition  and  to  them  cupidity.  To  the 
devout  believer  she  promised  pardons  as  ample  as  those 
with  which  she  had  rewarded  the  deliverers  of  the  Holy 
Sepulchre.  To  the  rapacious  and  profligate  she  offered  the 
plunder  of  fertile  plains  and  wealthy  cities.  Unhappily, 
the  ingenious  and  polished  inhabitants  of  trie  Languedocian 
provinces  were  far  better  qualified  to  enrich  and  embellish 
their  country  thaji  to  defend  it.  Eminent  in  the  arts  of 
peace,  unrivalled  in  the  “ gay  science,”  elevated  above 
many  vulgar  superstitions,  they  wanted  that;  iron  courage, 
and  that  skill  in  martial  exercises,  which  distinguished  the 
chivalry  of  the  region  beyond  the  Loire,  and  were  ill-fitted 
to  face  enemies  who,  in  every  country  from  Ireland  to 
Palestine,  had  been  victorious  against  tenfold  odds,  A war, 


YON  RANKE. 


473 


distinguished  even  among  wars  of  religion  by  merciless 
atrocity,  destroyed  the  Albigensian  heresy,  and  with  that 
heresy  the  prosperity,  the  civilization,  the  literature,  the 
national  existence,  of  what  was  once  the  most  opulent  and 
enlightened  part  of  the  great  European  family.  Rome,  in 
the  meantime,  warned  by  that  fearful  danger  from  which 
the  exterminating  swords  of  her  crusaders  had  narrowly 
saved  her,  proceeded  to  revise  and  to  strengthen  her  whole 
system  of  polity.  At  this  period  were  instituted  the  Order 
of  Francis,  the  Order  of  Dominic,  the  Tribunal  of  the  Inqui- 
sition. The  new  spiritual  police  were  everywhere.  No 
alley  in  a great  city,  no  hamlet  on  a remote  mountain,  was 
unvisited  by  the  begging  friar.  The  simple  Catholic,  wdio 
was  content  to  be  no  wiser  than  his  fathers,  found,  wherever 
hp  turned,  a friendly  voice  to  encourage  him.  The  path  of 
the  heretic  was  beset  by  innumerable  spies  ; and  the  Church, 
lately  in  danger  of  utter  subversion,  now  appeared  to  bo 
impregnably  fortified  by  the  love,  the  reverence,  and  the 
terror  of  mankind. 

A century  and  a half  passed  away;  and  then  came  the 
second  great  rising  up  of  the  human  intellect  against  the 
spiritual  domination  of  Rome.  During  the  two  generations 
which  followed  the  Albigensian  crusade,  the  power  of  the 
Papacy  had  been  at  the  height.  Frederic  the  Second,  the 
ablest  and  most  accomplished  of  the  long  line  of  German 
Csesars,  had  in  vain  exhausted  all  the  resources  of  military 
and  political  skill  in  the  attempt  to  defend  the  rights  of  the 
civil  power  against  the  encroachments  of  the  Church.  The 
vengeance  of  the  jmesthood  had  pursued  his  house  to  the 
third  generation.  Manfred  had  perished  on  the  field  of 
battle,  Conradin  on  the  scaffold.  Then  a turn  took  place. 
The  secular  authority,  long  unduly  depressed,  regained  the 
ascendant  with  startling  rapidity.  The  change  is  doubtless 
to  be  ascribed  chiefly  to  the  general  disgust  excited  by  the 
way  in  which  the  Church  had  abused  its  power  and  its  suc- 
cess. But  something  must  be  attributed  to  the  character 
and  situation  of  individuals.  The  man  who  bore  the  chief 
part  in  effecting  this  revolution  was  Philip  the  Fourth  of 
France,  surnamed  the  Beautiful,  a despot  by  position,  a 
despot  by  temperament,  stern,  implacable,  and  unscrupu- 
lous, equally  prepared  for  violence  and  for  chicanery,  and 
surrounded  by  a devoted  band  of  men  of  the  sword  and  of 
men  of  law.  The  fiercest  and  most  high-minded  of  the 
Roman  Pontiffs,  while  bestowing  kingdoms  and  citing  great 


474  MACATTLAY’s  mSCELLATC*KOTrS  WAITINGS. 

princes  to  his  judgment-seat,  was  seized  in  his  palace  by 
armed  men,  and  so  foully  outraged  that  he  died  mad  with 
rage  and  terror.  “ Thus,”  sang  the  great  Florentine  poet, 
“ was  Christ,  in  the  person  of  his  vTcar,  a second  time  seized 
by  ruffians,  a second  time  mocked,  a second  time  drenched 
with  the  vinegar  and  the  gall.”  The  seat  of  the  Papal 
court  was  carried  beyond  the  Alps,  and  the  Bishops  of  Rome 
became  dependents  of  France.  Then  came  the  great  schism 
of  the  West.  Two  Popes,  each  with  a doubtful  title,  made 
all  Europe  ring  with  their  mutual  invectives  and  anathemas. 
Rome  cried  out  against  the  corruptions  of  Avignon ; and 
Avignon,  with  equal  justice,  recriminated  on  Rome.  The 
plain  Christian  people,  brought  up  in  the  belief  that  it  was 
a sacred  duty  to  be  in  communion  with  the  head  of  the 
Church,  were  unable  to  discover,  amidst  conflicting  testi- 
monies and  conflicting  arguments,  to  which  of  the  two 
worthless  priests  who  were  cursing  and  reviling  each  other, 
the  headship  of  the  Church  rightfully  belonged.  It  was 
nearly  at  this  juncture  that  the  voice  of  John  Wield  iff  e be- 
gan to  make  itself  heard.  The  public  mind  of  England  was 
soon  stirred  to  its  inmost  depths  ; and  the  influence  of  the 
new  doctrines  was  soon  felt,  even  in  the  distant  kingdom  of 
Bohemia.  In  Bohemia,  indeed,  there  had  long  been  a pre- 
disposition to  heresy.  Merchants  from  the  Lower  Danube 
were  often  seen  in  the  fairs  of  Prague ; and  the  Lower 
Danube  was  peculiarly  the  seat  of  the  Paulician  theology. 
The  Church,  torn  by  schism,  and  fiercely  assailed  at  once  in 
England  and  in  the  German  Empire,  was  in  a situation 
scarcely  less  perilous  than  at  the  crisis  which  preceded  the 
Albigensian  crusade. 

But  this  danger  also  passed  by.  The  civil  power  gave 
its  strenuous  support  to  the  Church ; and  the  Church  made 
some  show  of  reforming  itself.  The  Council  of  Constance 
put  an  end  to  the  schism.  The  whole  Catholic  world  was 
again  united  under  a single  chief ; and  rules  were  laid  down 
wffiich  seemed  to  make  it  improbable  that  the  power  of  that 
chief  would  be  grossly  abused.  The  most  distinguished 
teachers  of  the  new  doctrine  were  slaughtered.  The  Eng- 
lish government  put  down  the  Lollards  with  merciless  rigor ; 
and  in  the  next  generation,  scarcely  one  trace  of  the  second 
great  revolt  against  the  Papacy  could  be  found,  except 
among  the  rude  population  of  the  mountains  of  Bohemia. 

Another  century  went  by;  and  then  began  the  third  and 
the  most  memorable  struggle  for  spiritual  freedom.  The 


YON  RANK®. 


475 


times  were  changed.  The  great  remains  of  Athenian  and 
Roman  genius  were  studied  by  thousands.  The  Church 
had  no  longer  a monopoly  of  learning.  The  powers  of  the 
modern  languages  had  at  length  been  developed.  The  in- 
vention of  printing  had  given  new  facilities  to  the  inter- 
course of  mind  with  mind.  With  such  auspices  commenced 
the  great  Reformation. 

We  will  attempt  to  lay  before  our  readers,  in  a short 
compass,  what  appears  to  us  to  be  the  real  history  of  the 
contest  which  began  with  the  preaching  of  Luther  against 
the  Indulgences,  and  which  may,  in  one  sense,  be  said  to 
have  terminated,  a hundred  and  thirty  years  later,  by  the 
treaty  of  Westphalia. 

In  the  northern  parts  of  Europe  the  victory  of  Protestants 
ism  was  rapid  and  decisive.  The  dominion  of  the  Papacy 
was  felt  by  the  nations  of  Teutonic  blood  as  the  dominion 
of  Italians,  of  foreigners,  of  men  who  were  aliens  in  lan- 
guage, manners,  and  intellectual  constitution.  The  large 
jurisdiction  exercised  by  the  spiritual  tribunals  of  Rome 
seemed  to  be  a degrading  badge  of  servitude.  The  sums 
which,  under  a thousand  pretexts,  were  exacted  by  a distant 
court,  were  regarded  both  as  a humiliating  and  as  a ruinous 
tribute.  The  character  of  that  court  excited  the  scorn  and 
disgust  of  a grave,  earnest,  sincere,  and  devout  people.  The 
new  theology  spread  with  a rapidity  never  known  before. 
All  ranks,  all  varieties  of  character,  joined  the  ranks  of  the 
innovators.  Sovereigns  impatient  to  appropriate  to  them- 
;elves  the  prerogatives  of  the  Pope,  nobles  desirous  to  share 
the  plunder  of  abbeys,  suitors  exasperated  by  the  extortions 
of  the  Roman  Camera,  patriots  impatient  of  a foreign  rule, 
good  men  scandalized  by  the  corruptions  of  the  Church,  bad 
men  desirous  of  the  license  inseparable  from  great  moral  rev- 
olutions, wise  men  eager  in  the  pursuit  of  truth,  weak  men 
allured  by  the  glitter  of  novelty,  all  were  found  on  one  side. 
Alone  among  the  northern  nations  the  Irish  adhered  to  the 
ancient  faith ; and  the  cause  of  this  seems  to  have  been 
that  the  national  feeling  which,  in  happier  countries,  was 
directed  against  Rome,  was  in  Ireland  directed  against 
England.  Within  fifty  years  from  the  day  on  which  Luther 
publicly  denounced  communion  with  "the  Papacy,  and 
burned  the  bull  of  Leo  before  the  gates  of  Wittenberg, 
Protestantism  attained  its  highest  ascendency,  an  ascend • 
eney  which  it  soon  lost,  and  which  it  has  never  regained. 
Hundreds,  who  could  wsTI  remember  Brother  Martin, a do* 


476 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


vout  Catholic,  lived  to  see  the  revolution,  of  which  he  was 
the  chief  author,  victorious  in  half  the  states  in  Europe. 
In  England,  Scotland,  Denmark,  Sweden,  Livonia,  Prussia, 
Saxony,  Hesse,  AVurtemburg,  the  Palatinate,  in  several 
cantons  of  Switzerland,  in  the  Northern  Netherlands,  the 
Reformation  had  completely  triumphed  ; and  in  all  the  other 
countries  on  this  side  of  the  Alps  and  the  Pyrenees,  it  seemed 
on  the  point  of  triumphing. 

But  while  this  mighty  work  was  proceeding  in  the  north 
of  Europe,  a revolution  of  a very  different  kind  had  taken 
place  in  the  south.  The  temper  of  Italy  and  Spain  was 
widely  different  from  that  of  Germany  and  England.  As 
the  national  feeling  of  the  Teutonic  nations  impelled  them 
to  throw  off  the  Italian  supremacy,  so  the  national  feeling 
of  the  Italians  impelled  them  to  resist  any  change  which 
might  deprive  their  country  of  the  honors  and  advantages 
which  she  enjoyed  as  the  seat  of  the  government  of  the 
Universal  Church.  It  was  in  Italy  that  the  tributes  were 
spent  of  which  foreign  nations  so  bitterly  complained.  It 
was  to  adorn  Italy  that  the  traffic  in  Indulgences  had  been 
carried  to  that  scandalous  excess  which  had  roused  the  in- 
dignation of  Luther.  There  was  among  the  Italians  both 
much  piety  and  much  impiety ; but,  with  very  few  excep- 
tions, neither  the  piety  nor  the  impiety  took  the  turn  of 
Protestantism.  The  religious  Italians  desired  a reform  of 
morals  and  discipline,  but  not  a reform  of  doctrine,  and  least 
of  all  a schism.  The  irreligious  Italians  simply  disbelieved 
Christianity,  without  hating  it.  They  looked  at  it  as  artists 
or  as  statesmen  ; and,  so  looking  at  it,  they  liked  it  better 
in  the  established  form  than  in  any  other.  It  was  to  them 
what  the  old  Pagan  worship  was  to  Trajan  and  Pliny.  Nei- 
ther the  spirit  of  Savonarola  nor  the  spirit  of  Machiavelli 
had  anything  in  common  with  the  spirit  of  the  religious  or 
political  Protestants  of  the  North. 

Spain  again  was,  with  respect  to  the  Catholic  Church, 
in  a situation  very  different  from  that  of  the  Teutonic  na- 
tions. Italy  was,  in  truth,  a part  of  the  empire  of  Charles 
the  Fifth;  and  the  court  of  Rome  was,  on  many  important 
occasions,  his  tool.  He  had  not,  therefore,  like  the  distant 
princes  of  the  North,  a strong  selfish  motive  for  attacking 
the  Papacy.  In  fact,  the  very  measures  which  provoked  the 
Sovereign  of  England  to  renounce  all  connection  with 
Rome  were  dictated  by  the  Sovereign  of  Spain.  The  feel* 
ing  of  the  Spanish  people  concurred  with  the  interest  of  tho 


VON  RANKLE. 


477 


Spanish  government.  The  attachment  of  the  Castilian  to 
the  faith  of  his  ancestors  was  peculiarly  strong  and  ardent. 
With  that  faith  were  inseparably  bound  up  the  institutions, 
the  independence,  and  the  glory  of  his  country.  Between 
the  day  when  the  last  Gothic  king  was  vanquished  on  the 
banks  of  the  Xeres,  and  the  day  when  Ferdinand  and  Isa- 
bella entered  Granada  in  triumph,  near  eight  hundred  years 
had  elapsed ; and  during  those  years  the  Spanish  nation  had 
been  engaged  in  a desperate  struggle  against  misbelievers. 
The  Crusades  had  been  merely  an  episode  in  the  history  of 
other  nations.  The  existence  of  Spain  had  been  one  long 
Crusade.  After  fighting  Mussulmans  in  the  Old  World,  she 
began  to  fight  heathens  in  the  new.  It  was  under  the  author- 
ity of  a Papal  bull  that  her  children  steered  into  unknown 
seas.  It  was  under  the  standard  of  the  cross  that  they 
marched  fearlessly  into  the  heart  of  great  kingdoms.  It 
was  with  the  cry  of  “ St.  James  for  Spain,5’  that  they 
charged  armies  which  outnumbered  them  a hundred-fold. 
And  men  said  that  the  Saint  had  heard  the  call,  and  had 
himself,  in  arms,  on  a gray  war-horse,  led  the  onset  before 
which  the  worshippers  of  false  gods  had  given  way.  After 
the  battle,  every  excess  of  rapacity  or  cruelty  was  sufficiently 
vindicated  by  the  plea  that  the  sufferers  were  unbaptized. 
Avarice  stimulated  zeal.  Zeal  consecrated  avarice.  Prose- 
lytes and  gold  mines  were  sought  with  equal  ardor.  In  the 
very  year  in  which  the  Saxons,  maddened  by  the  exactions 
of  Rome,  broke  loose  from  her  yoke,  the  Spaniards,  under 
the  authority  of  Rome,  made  themselves  masters  of  the 
empire  and  of  the  treasures  of  Montezuma.  Thus  Catholi- 
cism which,  in  the  public  mind  of  Northern  Europe,  was 
associated  with  spoliation  and  ojqwession,  was  in  the  public 
mind  of  Spain  associated  with  liberty,  victory,  dominion, 
wealth,  and  glory. 

It  is  not,  therefore,  strange  that  the  effect  of  the  great 
outbreak  of  Protestantism  in  one  part  of  Christendom 
should  have  been  to  produce  an  equally  violent  outbreak  of 
Catholic  zeal  in  another.  Two  reformations  were  pushed  on 
at  once  with  equal  energy  and  effect,  a reformation  of  doc- 
trine in  the  North,  a reformation  of  manners  and  discipline 
in  the  South.  In  the  course  of  a single  generation,  the 
whole  spirit  of  the  church  of  Rome  underwent  a change. 
From  the  halls  of  the  Yatican  to  the  most  secluded  hermit- 
age of  the  Apennines,  the  great  revival  was  everywhere 
felt  and  seen-  All  the  institutions  anciently  devised  for  thv 


478 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


propagation  and  defence  of  the  faith  were  furbished  up  and 
made  efficient.  Fresh  engines  of  still  more  formidable 
power  were  constructed.  Everywhere  old  religious  com- 
munities were  remodeled  and  new  religious  communities 
called  into  existence.  Within  a year  after  the  death  of  Leo, 
the  order  of  Camaldoli  was  purified.  The  Capuchins  restored 
the  old  Franciscan  discipline,  the  midnight  prayer  and  the 
life  of  silence.  The  Barnabites  and  the  society  of  Somasca 
devoted  themselves  to  the  relief  and  education  of  the  poor. 

To  the  Theatine  order  a still  higher  interest  belongs.  Its 
great  object  was  the  same  with  that  of  our  early  Methodists, 
namely  to  supply  the  deficiencies  of  the  parochial  clergy. 

The  Church  of  Home,  wiser  than  the  Church  of  England, 
gave  every  countenance  to  the  good  work.  The  members 
of  the  new  brotherhood  preached  to  great  multitudes  in  the 
streets  and  in  the  fields,  prayed  by  the  beds  of  the  sick,  and 
administered  the  last  sacraments  to  the  dying.  Foremost  , 
among  them  in  zeal  and  devotion  was  Gian  Pietro  Caraffa, 
afterwards  Pope  Paul  the  Fourth.  In  the  convent  of  the 
Theatines  at  Venice,  under  the  eye  of  Caraffa  a Spanish 
gentleman  took  up  his  abode,  tended  the  poor  in  the  hospi-  1 
tals,  went  about  in  rags,  starved  himself  almost  to  death, 
and  often  sallied  into  the  streets,  mounted  on  stones,  and, 
waving  his  hat  to  invite  the  passers-by,  began  to  preach  in 
a strange  jargon  of  mingled  Castilian  and  Tuscan.  The 
Theatines  were  among  the  most  zealous  and  rigid  of  men  ; 
but  to  this  enthusiastic  neophyte  their  discipline  seemed 
lax,  and  their  movements  sluggish ; for  his  own  mind, 
naturally  passionate  and  imaginative,  had  passed  through 
a training  which  had  given  to  all  its  peculiarities  a mor- 
bid intensity  and  energy.  In  his  early  life  he  had  been  the 
very  prototype  of  the  hero  of  Cervantes.  The  single  study 
of  the  young  Hidalgo  had  been  chivalrous  romance ; and 
his  existence  had  been  one  gorgeous  day-dream  of  princesses 
rescued  and  infidels  subdued.  He  had  chosen  a Dulcinea, 

“ no  countess,  no  duchess,” — these  are  his  own  words, — 

“ but  one  of  far  higher  station  ; ” and  he  flattered  himself 
with  the  hope  of  laying  at  her  feet  the  keys  of  Moorish 
castles  and  the  jewelled  turbans  of  Asiatic  kings.  In  the 
midst  of  these  visions  of  martial  glory  and  prosperous  love, 
a severe  wound  stretched  him  on  a bed  of  sickness.  His 
constitution  was  shattered  and  he  was  doomed  to  be  a cripple 
ior  life.  The  palm  of  strength,  grace,  and  skill  in  knightly 
exercises,  was  no  longer  for  ium*  He  could  no  longer  hope 


479 


to  strike  down  gigantic  soldans,  or  to  find  favor  in  the  sight 
of  beautiful  women.  A new  vision  then  arose  in  his  mind, 
and  mingled  itself  with  his  own  delusions  in  a manner  which 
to  most  Englishmen  must  seem  singular,  but  which  those 
who  know  how  close  was  the  union  between  religion  and 
chivalry  in  Spain  will  be  at  no  loss  to  understand.  He 
would  still  be  a soldier ; he  would  still  be  a knight  errant ; 
but  the  soldier  and  knight  errant  of  the  spouse  of  Christ, 
He  would  smite  the  Great  Red  Dragon.  He  would  be  the 
champion  of  the  Woman  clothed  with  the  Sun.  He  would 
break  the  charm  under  which  filse  prophets  held  the  souls 
of  men  in  bondage.  His  restless  spirit  led  him  to  the  Syrian 
deserts,  and  to  the  chapel  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre.  Thence 
he  wandered  back  to  the  farthest  West,  and  astonished  the 
convents  of  Spain  and  the  schools  of  France  by  his  pen- 
ances and  vigils.  The  same  lively  imagination  which  had 
been  employed  in  picturing  the  tumult  of  unreal  battles, 
and  the  charms  of  unreal  queens,  now  peopled  his  solitude 
with  saints  and  angels.  The  Holy  Virgin  descended  to 
commune  with  him.  He  saw  the  Saviour  face  to  face  with 
the  eye  of  flesh.  Even  those  mysteries  of  religion  which 
are  the  highest  trial  of  faith  were  in  his  case  palpable  to 
sight.  It  is  difficult  to  relate  without  a pitying  smile  that, 
in  the  sacrifice  of  the  mass,  he  saw  transubstantiation  take 
place,  and  that,  as  he  stood  praying  on  the  steps  of  the 
Church  of  St.  Dominic,  he  saw  the  Trinity  in  Unity,  and 
wept  aloud  with  joy  and  wonder.  Such  was  the  celebrated 
Ignatius  Loyola,  who,  in  the  great  Catholic  reaction,  bore 
the  same  part  which  Luther  bore  in  the  great  Protestant 
movement. 

Dissatisfied  with  the  system  of  the  Theatines,  the  en- 
thusiastic Spaniard  turned  his  face  towards  Rome.  Poor, 
obscure,  without  a patron,  without  recommendations,  he 
entered  the  city  where  now  two  princely  temples,  rich  with 
painting  and  many-colored  marble,  commemorate  his  great 
services  to  the  Church ; where  his  form  stands  sculptured  in 
massive  silver ; where  his  bones,  enshrined  amidst  jewels, 
are  placed  beneath  the  altar  of  God.  His  activity  and  zeal 
bore  down  all  opposition  ; and  under  his  rule  the  order  of 
Jesuits  began  to  exist,  and  grew  rapidly  to  the  full  measure 
of  his  gigantic  powers.  With  what  vehemence,  with  what 
{ policy,  with  what  exact  discipline,  with  what  dauntless  cour- 
age, with  what  self-denial,  with  what  forgetfulness  of  the 
dearest  private  ties,  with  what  int<  use  and  stubborn  devo- 


480  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

tion  to  a single  end,  with  what  unscrupulous  laxity  and 
versatility  in  the  choice  of  means,  the  Jesuits  fought  the 
battle  of  their  church,  is  written  in  every  page  of  the  annals 
of  Europe  during  several  generations.  In  the  order  of  Jesus 
was  concentrated  the  quintessence  of  the  Catholic  spirit ; 
and  the  history  of  the  order  of  Jesus  is  the  history  of  the 
great  Catholic  reaction.  That  order  possessed  itself  at  once 
of  all  the  strongholds  which  command  the  public  mind,  of 
the  pulpit,  of  the  press,  of  the  confessional,  of  the  acade- 
mies. Wherever  the  Jesuit  preached,  the  church  was  too 
small  for  the  audience.  The  name  of  Jesuit  on  a title- 
page  secured  the  circulation  of  a book.  It  was  in  the  ears 
of  the  Jesuit  that  the  powerful,  the  noble,  and  the  beautiful, 
breathed  the  secret  history  of  their  lives.  It  was  at  the  feet 
of  the  Jesuit  that  the  youth  of  the  higher  and  middle 
classes  were  brought  up  from  childhood  to  manhood,  from 
the  first,  rudiments  to  the  courses  of  rhetoric  and  philos- 
ophy. Literature  and  science,  lately  associated  with  infi- 
delity or  with  heresy,  now  became  the  allies  of  orthodoxy. 
Dominant  in  the  South  of  Europe,  the  great  order  soon 
went  forth  conquering  and  to  conquer.  In  spite  of  oceans 
and  deserts,  of  hunger  and  pestilence,  of  spies  and  penal 
laws,  of  dungeons  and  racks,  of  gibbets  and  quartering- 
blocks,  Jesuits  were  to  be  found  under  every  disguise,  and 
in  every  country ; scholars,  physicians,  merchants,  serving 
men ; in  the  hostile  court  of  Sweden,  in  the  old  manor-house 
of  Cheshire,  among  the  hovels  of  Connaught ; arguing,  in- 
structing, consoling,  stealing  away  the  hearts  of  the  young, 
animating  the  courage  of  the  timid,  holding  up  the  crucifix 
before  the  eyes  of  the  dying.  Nor  was  it  less  their  office  to 
plot  against  the  thrones  and  lives  of  the  apostate  kings,  to 
spread  evil  rumors,  to  raise  tumults,  to  inflame  civil  wars, 
to  arm  the  hand  of  the  assassin.  Inflexible  in  nothing  but 
in  their  fidelity  to  the  Church,  they  were  equally  ready  to 
appeal  in  her  cause  to  the  spirit  of  loyalty  and  to  the  spirit 
of  freedom.  Extreme  doctrines  of  obedience  and  extreme 
doctrines  of  liberty,  the  right  of  rulers  to  misgovern  the 
people,  the  right  of  every  one  of  the  people  to  plunge  his 
knife  m the  heart  of  a bad  ruler,  were  inculcated  by  the 
same  man,  according  as  he  addressed  himself  to  the  subject 
of  Philip  or  to  the  subject  of  Elizabeth.  Some  described 
these  divines  as  the  most  rigid,  others  as  the  most  indulgent 
of  spiritual  directors  ; and  both  descriptions  were  correct. 
The  truly  devout  listened  with  awe  to  the  high  and  saintly 


VON  RANKS. 


481 


morality  of  the  Jesuit.  The  gay  cavalier  who  had  run  hifc 
rival  through  the  body,  the  frail  beauty  who  had  forgotten 
her  marriage-vow,  found  in  the  Jesuit  an  easy  well-bred 
man  of  the  world,  who  knew  how  to  make  allowance  for 
the  little  irregularities  of  people  of  fashion.  The  confessor 
was  strict  or  lax,  according  to  the  temper  of  the  penitent. 
The  first  object  was  to  drive  no  person  out  of  the  pale  of 
the  Church.  Since  there  were  bad  people,  it  was  better 
that  they  should  be  bad  Catholics  than  bad  Protestants.  If 
a person  was  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  a bravo,  a libertine,  or 
a gambler,  that  was  no  reason  for  making  him  a heretic  too. 

The  Old  World  was  not  wide  enough  for  this  strange 
activity.  The  Jesuits  invaded  all  the  countries  which  the 
great  maritime  discoveries  of  the  preceding  age  had  laid 
open  to  European  enterprise.  They  were  to  be  found  in 
the  depths  of  the  Peruvian  mines,  at  the  marts  of  the  Afri- 
can slave-caravans,  on  the  shores  of  the  Spice  Islands,  in 
the  observatories  of  China.  They  made  converts  in  regions 
which  neither  avarice  nor  curiosity  had  tempted  any  of 
their  countrymen  to  enter ; and  preached  and  disputed  in 
tongues  of  which  no  other  native  of  the  West  understood  a 
word. 

The  spirit  which  appeared  so  eminently  in  this  order 
animated  the  whole  Catholic  world.  The  Court  of  Rome 
itself  was  purified.  During  the  generation  which  preceded 
the  Reformation,  that  court  had  been  a scandal  to  the  Chris- 
tian name.  Its  annals  are  black  with  treason,  murder,  and 
incest.  Even  its  more  respectable  members  were  utterly 
unfit  to  be  ministers  of  religion.  They  were  men  like  Leo 
the  Tenth ; men  who,  with  the  Latinity  of  the  Augustan 
age,  had  acquired  its  atheistical  and  scoffing  spirit.  They 
regarded  those  Christian  mysteries,  of  which  they  were 
stewards,  just  as  the  Augur  Cicero  and  the  high  Pontiff 
Caesar  regarded  the  Sibylline  books  and  the  pecking  of  the 
sacred  chickens.  Among  themselves,  they  spoke  of  the 
Incarnation,  the  Eucharist,  and  the  Trinity,  in  the  same 
tone  in  which  Cotta  and  Velleius  talked  of  the  oracle  of 
Delphi  or  the  voice  of  Faunus  in  the  mountains.  Their 
years  glided  by  in  a soft  dream  of  sensual  and  intellectual 
voluptuousness.  Choice  cookery,  delicious  wines,  lovely 
women,  hounds,  falcons,  horses,  newly  discovered  manu- 
scripts of  the  classics,  sonnets  and  burlesque  romances  in 
the  sweetest  Tuscan,  just  as  licentious  as  a fine  sense  of  the 
graceful  would  permit,  plate  from  the  hand  of  Benvenuto* 
Von,  II.— ax 


482 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


designs  for  palaces  by  MicLael  Angelo,  frescoes  by  Raphael, 
busts,  mosaics,  and  gems  just  dug  up  from  among  the  ruins 
of  ancient  temples  and  villas,  these  things  were  the  delight 
and  even  the  serious  business  of  their  lives.  Letters  and 
the  fine  arts  undoubtedly  owe  much  to  this  not  inelegant 
sloth.  But  when  the  great  stirring  of  the  mind  of  Europe 
began,  when  doctrine  after  doctrine  was  assailed,  when 
nation  after  nation  withdrew  from  communion  with  the 
successor  of  St.  Peter,  it  w^as  felt  that  the  Church  could  not 
be  safely  confided  to  chiefs  whose  highest  praise  was  that 
they  were  good  judges  of  Latin  compositions,  of  paintings, 
and  of  statues,,  whose  severest  studies  had  a pagan  character, 
and  who  were  suspected  of  laughing  in  secret  at  the  sacra- 
ments which  they  administered,  and  of  believing  no  more 
of  the  Gospel  than  of  the  Morgante  Maggiore.  Men  of  a 
very  different  class  now  rose  to  the  direction  of  ecclesiasti- 
cal affairs,  men  whose  spirit  resembled  that  of  Dunstan  and 
of  Becket.  The  Roman  Pontiffs  exhibited  in  their  own  per- 
sons all  the  austerity  of  the  early  anchorites  of  Syria.  Paul 
the  Fourth  brought  to  the  Papal  throne  the  same  fervent 
zeal  which  had  carried  him  into  the  Theatine  convent.  Pius 
the  Fifth,  under  his  gorgeous  vestments,  wore  day  and  night 
the  hair  shirt  of  a simple  friar,  walked  barefoot  in  the  streets 
at  the  head  of  processions,  found,  even  in  the  midst  of  his 
most  pressing  avocations,  time  for  private  prayer,  often  re 
gretted  that  the  public  duties  of  his  station  were  unfavorable 
to  growth  of  holiness,  and  edified  his  flock  by  innumerable 
instances  of  humility,  charity  and  forgiveness  of  personal 
injuries,  while,  at  the  same  time,  he  upheld  the  authority  of 
his  see,  and  the  unadulterated  doctrines  of  his  Church,  with 
all  the  stubbornness  and  vehemence  of  Hildebrand.  Gregory 
the  Thirteenth  exerted  himself  not  only  to  imitate  but  to 
surpass  Pius  in  the  severe  virtues  of  his  sacred  profession. 
As  was  the  head,  such  were  the  members.  The  change  in 
the  spirit  of  the  Catholic  world  may  be  traced  in  every  walk 
of  literature  and  of  art.  It  will  be  at  once  perceived  by  every 
person  who  compares  the  poem  of  Tasso  with  that  of  Ariosto, 
or  the  monuments  of  Sixtus  the  Fifth  with  those  of  Leo  the 
Tenth. 

But  it  was  not  on  moral  influence  alone  that  the  Catho- 
lic Church  relied.  The  civil  sword  in  Spain  and  Italy  was 
unsparingly  employed  in  her  support.  The  Inquisition  was 
armed  with  new  powers  and  inspired  with  a new  energy.  If 
Protestantism,  or  the  semblance  of  Protestantism,  showedi 


VON  RANKE. 


488 


Itself  in  any  quarter,  it  was  instantly  met,  not  by  petty, 
teasing  persecution,  but  by  persecution  of  that  sort  which 
bows  down  and  crushes  a]l  but  a very  few  select  spirits, 
Whoever  was  suspected  of  heresy,  whatever  his  rank,  his 
learning,  or  his  reputation,  knew  that  he  must  purge  him- 
self to  the  satisfaction  of  a severe  and  vigilant  tribunal,  or 
die  by  fire.  Heretical  books  were  sought  out  and  destroyed 
with  similar  rigor.  Works  which  were  once  in  every  house 
were  so  effectually  suppressed  that  no  copy  of  them  is  now 
to  be  found  in  the  most  extensive  libraries.  One  book  in 
particular,  entitled  “ Of  the  Benefits  of  the  Death  of 
Christ,”  had  this  fate.  It  was  written  in  Tuscan,  was  many 
times  reprinted,  and  was  eagerly  read  in  every  part  of  Italy. 
But  the  inquisitors  detected  in  it  the  Lutheran  doctrine  of 
justification  by  faith  alone.  They  proscribed  it ; and  it  h 
now  as  hopelessly  lost  as  the  second  decade  of  Livy. 

Thus,  while  the  Protestant  reformation  proceeded  rapidly 
at  one  extremity  of  Europe,  the  Catholic  revival  went  on 
as  rapidly  at  the  other.  About  half  a century  after  the 
great  separation,  there  were,  throughout  the  North,  Protes- 
tant governments  and  Protestant  nations.  In  the  South 
were  governments  and  nations  actuated  by  the  most  intense 
zeal  for  the  ancient  Church.  Between  these  two  hostile 
regions  lay,  morally  as  well  as  geographically,  a great 
debatable  land.  In  France,  Belgium,  Southern  Germany, 
Hungary,  and  Poland,  the  contest  was  still  undecided.  The 
governments  of  those  countries  had  not  renounced  their 
connection  with  Rome  ; but  the  Protestants  were  numerous, 
powerful,  bold,  and  active.  In  France,  they  formed  a com- 
monwealth within  the  realm,  held  fortresses,  were  able  to 
bring  great  armies  into  the  field,  and  had  treated  with  their 
sovereign  on  terms  of  equality.  In  Poland,  the  King  was 
still  a Catholic;  but  the  Protestants  had  the  upper  hand  in 
the  Diet,  filled  the  chief  offices  in  the  administration,  and,  in 
the  large  towns,  took  possession  of  the  parish  churches.  “ It 
appeared,”  says  the  Papal  nuncio,  “ that  in  Poland,  Protes- 
tantism would  completely  supersede  Catholicism.”  In 
Bavaria,  the  state  of  things  wus  nearly  the  same.  The 
Protestants  had  a majority  in  the  Assembly  of  the  States, 
and  demanded  from  the  duke  concessions  in  favor  of  their 
religion,  as  the  price  of  their  subsidies.  In  Transylvania, 
the  House  of  Austria  was  unable  to  prevent  the  Diet  from 
confiscating,  by  one  sweeping  decree,  the  estates  of  the 
Church.  In  Austria  Proper,  it  was  generally  said  that  only 


£84  macaulat’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

one  thirtieth  part  of  the  population  could  be  counted  on  as 
good  Catholics.  In  Belgium  the  adherents  of  the  new 
opinions  were  reckoned  by  hundreds  of  thousands. 

The  history  of  the  two  succeeding  generations  is  the 
history  of  the  struggle  between  Protestantism  possessed  of 
the  North  of  Europe,  and  Catholicism  possessed  of  the 
South,  for  the  doubtful  territory  which  lay  between.  All 
the  weapons  of  carnal  and  of  spiritual  warfare  were  em- 
ployed. Both  sides  may  boast  of  great  talents  and  of  great 
virtues.  Both  have  to  blush  for  many  follies  and  crimes. 
At  first  the  chances  seemed  to  be  decidedly  in  favor 
of  Protestantism  ; but  the  victory  remained  with  the  Church 
of  Rome.  On  every  point  she  was  successful.  If  we  over- 
leap another  half  century,  we  find  her  victorious  and  domi- 
nant in  France,  Belgium,  Bavaria,  Bohemia,  Austria,  Poland, 
and  Hungary.  Nor  has  Protestantism,  in  the  course  of  two 
hundred  years  been  able  to  reconquer  any  portion  of  what 
was  then  lost. 

It  is,  moreover,  not  to  be  dissembled  that  this  triumph 
of  the  Papacy  is  to  be  chiefly  attributed,  not  to  the  force 
of  arms,  but  to  a great  reflux  in  public  opinion.  During 
the  first  half  century  after  the  commencement  of  the  Refor- 
mation, the  current  of  feeling  in  the  countries  on  this  side 
of  the  Alps  and  of  the  Pyrenees  ran  impetuously  towards 
the  new  doctrines.  Then  the  tide  turned,  and  rushed  as 
fiercely  in  the  opposite  direction.  Neither  during  the  one 
period,  nor  during  the  other,  did  much  depend  upon  the 
event  of  battles  or  sieges.  The  Protestant  movement  was 
hardly  checked  for  an  instant  by  the  defeat  of  Muhlberg. 
The  Catholic  reaction  went  on  at  full  speed  in  spite  of  the 
destruction  of  the  Armada.  It  is  difficult  to  say  whether 
the  violence  of  the  first  blow  or  of  the  recoil  was  the  greater. 
Fifty  years  after  the  Lutheran  separation,  Catholicism  could 
scarcely  maintain  itself  on  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean. 
A hundred  years  after  the  separation,  Protestantism  could 
scarcely  maintain  itself  on  the  shores  of  the  Baltic.  The 
causes  of  this  memorable  turn  in  human  affairs  well  deserve 
to  be  investigated. 

The  contest  between  the  two  parties  bore  some  resem- 
blance to  the  fencing-match  in  Shakspeare  ; “ Laertes  wounds 
Hamlet;  then,  in  scuffling,  they  change  rapiers,  and  Hamlet 
wounds  Laertes.”  The  war  between  Luther  and  Leo  was  a 
war  between  firm  faith  and  unbelief,  between  zeal  and 
apathy,  between  energy  and  indolence,  between  seriousness 


TOtt  RANKE. 


485 


and  frivolity,  between  a pure  morality  and  vice.  Very  dif- 
ferent was  the  war  which  degenerate  Protestantism  had  to 
wage  against  regenerate  Catholicism.  To  the  debauchee, 
the  poisoners,  the  atheists,  who  had  worn  the  tiara  during 
the  generation  which  preceded  the  Reformation,  had  suc- 
ceeded Popes  who,  in  religious  fervor  and  severe  sanctity  of 
manners,  might  bear  a comparison  with  Cyprian  or  Ambrose. 
The  order  of  Jesuits  alone  could  show  many  men  not  infe- 
rior in  sincerity,  constancy,  courage,  and  austerity  of  life,  to 
the  apostles  of  the  Reformation.  But  while  danger  had 
thus  called  forth  in  the  bosom  of  the  Church  of  Rome 
many  of  the  highest  qualities  of  the  Reformers,  the  Re- 
formers had  contracted  some  of  the  corruptions  which  had 
been  justly  censured  in  the  Church  of  Rome.  They  had  be- 
come lukewarm  and  worldly.  Their  great  old  leaders  had 
been  borne  to  the  grave,  and  had  left  no  successors.  Among 
the  Protestant  princes  there  was  little  or  no  hearty  Protestant 
feeling.  Elizabeth  herself  was  a Protestant  rather  from 
policy  than  from  firm  conviction.  James  the  First,  in  order 
to  effect  his  favorite  object  of  marrying  his  son  into  one  of 
the  great  continental  houses,  was  ready  to  make  immense 
concessions  to  Rome,  and  even  to  admit  a modified  primacy 
in  the  Pope.  Henry  the  Foui'th  twice  abjured  the  reformed 
doctrines  from  interested  motives.  The  Elector  of  Saxony, 
the  natural  head  of  the  Protestant  party  in  Germany,  sub- 
mitted to  become,  at  the  most  important  crisis  of  the  strug- 
gle, a tool  in  the  hands  of  the  Papists.  Among  the  Catholic 
sovereigns,  on  the  other  hand,  we  find  a religious  zeal  often 
amounting  to  fanaticism.  Philip  the  Second  was  a Papist 
in  a very  different  sense  from  that  in  which  Elizabeth  was 
a Protestant.  Maximilian  of  Bavaria,  brought  up  under 
the  teaching  of  the  Jesuits,  was  a fervent  missionary  wield- 
ing the  powers  of  a prince.  The  Emperor  Ferdinand  the 
Second  deliberately  put  his  throne  to  hazard  over  and  over 
again,  rather  than  make  the  smallest  concession  to  the  spirit 
of  religious  innovation.  Sigismund  of  Sweden  lost  a crown 
which  he  might  have  preserved  if  he  would  have  renounced 
the  Catholic  faith.  In  short,  everywhere  on  the  Protestant 
side  we  see  languor ; everywhere  on  the  Catholic  side  we 
see  ardor  and  devotion. 

Not  only  was  there,  at  this  time,  a much  more  intense 
zeal  among  the  Catholics  than  among  the  Protestants  ; but 
the  wdiole  zeal  of  the  Catholics  was  directed  against  the 
Protestant^  while  almost  the  whole  zeal  of  the  Protestants 


486 


MACATTLAYy8  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


was  directed  against  each  other.  Within  the  Catholic 
Church  there  were  no  serious  disputes  on  points  of  doctrine. 
The  decisions  of  the  Council  of  Trent  were  received ; and 
the  Jansenian  controversy  had  not  yet  arisen.  The  whole 
force  of  Rome  was,  therefore,  effective  for  the  purpose  of 
carrying  on  the  war  against  the  Reformation.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  force  which  ought  to  have  fought  the  battle  of 
the  Reformation  was  exhausted  in  civil  conflict.  While 
Jesuit  preachers,  Jesuit  confessors,  Jesuit  teachers  of  youth, 
overspread  Europe,  eager  to  expend  every  faculty  of  their 
minds  and  every  drop  of  their  blood  in  the  cause  of  their 
Church,  Protestant  doctors  were  confuting,  and  Protestant 
rulers  were  punishing,  sectaries  who  were  just  as  good  Prot- 
estants as  themselves. 

“ Cumque  superba  foret  Babylon  spolianda  tropaeis, 

Bella  geri  placuit  nullos  liabitura  triumph  os.” 

In  the  Palatinate,  a Calvinistic  prince  persecuted  the 
Lutherans.  In  Saxony,  a Lutheran  prince  persecuted  the 
Calvinists.  Everybody  who  objected  to  any  of  the  articles 
of  the  Confession  of  Augsburg  was  banished  from  Sweden. 
In  Scotland,  Melville  was  disputing  with  other  Protestants 
on  questions  of  ecclesiastical  government.  In  England  the 
jails  were  filled  with  men,  who,  though  zealous  for  the  Re- 
formation, did  not  exactly  agree  writh  the  Court  on  all 
points  of  discipline  and  doctrine.  Some  were  persecuted 
for  denying  the  tenet  of  reprobation ; some  for  not  wearing 
surplices.  The  Irish  people  might  at  that  time  have  been, 
in  all  probability,  reclaimed  from  Popery,  at  the  expense  of 
half  the  zeal  and  activity  which  Whitgift  employed  in  op- 
pressing Puritans,  and  Martin  Marprelate  in  reviling  bishops. 

As  the  Catholics  in  zeal  and  in  union  had  a great  advan- 
tage over  the  Protestants,  s#  had  they  also  an  infinitely  su- 
perior organization.  In  truth,  Protestantism,  for  aggressive 
purposes,  had  no  organization  at  all.  The  Reformed 
Churches,  were  mere  national  Churches.  The  Church  of 
England  existed  for  England  alone.  It  was  an  institution 
as  purely  local  as  the  Court  of  Common  Pleas,  and  was  ut- 
terly without  any  machinery  for  foreign  operations.  The 
Church  of  Scotland,  in  the  same  manner  existed  for  Scot- 
land alone.  The  operations  of  the  Catholic  Church,  on  the 
other  hand,  took  in  the  whole  world.  Nobody  at  Lambeth 
or  at  Edinburgh  troubled  himself  about  what  was  doing  in 
Poland  or  Bavaria.  But  Cracow  and  Munich  were  at  Rome 


VON  E ANILE. 


487 


objects  of  as  much  interest  as  the  purlieus  of  St.  John  La* 
teran.  Our  island,  at  the  head  of  the  Protestant  interest, 
did  not  send  out  a single  missionary  or  a single  instructor 
of  youth  to  the  scene  of  the  great  spiritual  war.  Not  a 
single  seminary  was  established  here  for  the  purpose  of  fur- 
nishing a supply  of  such  persons  to  foreign  countries.  On 
the  other  hand,  Germany,  Hungary,  and  Poland  were  filled 
wfith  able  and  active  Catholic  emissaries  of  Spanish  or  Italian 
birth ; and  colleges  for  the  instruction  of  the  northern  youth 
were  founded  at  Pome.  The  spiritual  force  of  Protestant- 
ism was  a mere  local  militia,  which  might  be  useful  in  case 
of  an  invasion,  but  could  not  be  sent  abroad,  and  could 
therefore  make  no  conquests.  Rome  had  such  a local  mili- 
tia ; but  she  had  also  a force  disposable  at  a moment’s  notice 
for  foreign  service,  however  dangerous  or  disagreeable.  If 
it  was  thought  at  headquarters  that  a Jesuit  at  Palermo  was 
qualified  by  his  talents  and  character  to  withstand  the  Re- 
formers in  Lithuania,  the  order  was  instantly  given  and  in- 
stantly obeyed.  In  a month,  the  faithful  servant  of  the 
Church  was  preaching,  catechizing,  confessing,  beyond  the 
Niemen. 

It  is  impossible  to  deny  that  the  polity  of  the  Church  of 
Rome  is  the  very  master-piece  of  human  wisdom.  In  truth, 
nothing  but  such  a polity  could,  against  such  assaults,  have 
borne  up  such  doctrines.  The  experience  of  twelve  hundred 
eventful  years,  the  ingenuity  and  patient  care  of  forty  gen- 
erations of  statesmen,  have  improved  that  polity  to  such 
perfection  that,  among  the  contrivances  which  have  been 
devised  for  deceiving  and  oppressing  mankind  it  occupies 
the  highest  place.  The  stronger  our  conviction  that  reason 
and  scripture  were  decidedly  on  the  side  of  Protestantism, 
the  greater  is  the  reluctant  admiration  with  which  we  regard 
that  system  of  tactics  against  which  reason  and  scripture 
were  employed  in  vain. 

If  we  went  at  length  into  this  most  interesting  subject 
we  should  fill  volumes.  We  will,  therefore,  at  present,  ad- 
vert to  only  one  important  part  of  the  policy  of  the  Church 
cf  Rome..  She  thoroughly  understands,  what  no  other 
Church  has  ever  understood,  how  to  deal  with  enthusiasts. 
In  some  sects,  particularly  in  infant  sects,  enthusiasm  is  suf- 
fered to  be  rampant.  In  other  sects,  particularly  in  sects 
long  established  and  richly  endowed,  it  is  regarded  with 
aversion.  The  Catholic  Church  neither  submits  to  enthu- 
\asm  nor  prescribes  it,  but  uses  it.  She.  considers  it  as  a 


488  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  whitings. 

great  moving  force  which  in  itself,  like  the  muscular  power 
of  a fine  horse,  is  neither  good  nor  evil,  but  which  may  be 
so  directed  as  to  produce  great  good  or  great  evil ; and  she 
assumes  the  direction  to  herself.  It  would  be  absurd  to 
run  down  a horse  like  a wolf.  It  would  be  still  more  ab- 
surd to  let  him  run  wild,  breaking  fences  and  trampling 
down  passengers.  The  rational  course  is  to  subjugate  his 
will  without  impairing  his  vigor,  to  teach  him  to  obey  the 
rein  and  then  to  urge  him  to  full  speed.  When  once  he 
knows  his  master,  he  is  valuable  in  proportion  to  his  strength 
and  spirit.  Just  such  has  been  the  system  of  the  Church  of 
Rome  with  regard  to  enthusiasts.  She  knows  that  when 
religious  feelings  have  obtained  the  complete  empire  of  the 
mind,  they  impart  a strange  energy,  that  they  raise  men 
above  the  dominion  of  pain  and  pleasure,  that  obloquy  be- 
comes glory,  that  death  itself  is  contemplated  only  as  the 
beginning  of  a higher  and  happier  life.  She  knows  that  a 
person  in  this  state  is  no  object  of  contempt.  He  may  be 
vulgar,  ignorant,  visionary,  extravagant;  but  he  will  do 
and  suffer  things  which  it  is  for  her  interest  that  somebody 
should  do  and  suffer,  yet  from  which  calm  and  sober-minded 
men  would  shrink.  She  accordingly  enlists  him  in  her  ser- 
vice, assigns  to  him  some  forlorn  hope,  in  which  intrepidity 
and  impetuosity  are  more  wanted  than  judgment  and  self- 
command,  and  sends  him  forth  with  her  benediction  and 
her  applause. 

In  England  it  not  unfrequently  happens  that  a tinker  or 
coalheaver  hears  a sermon  or  falls  in  with  a tract  which 
alarms  him  about  the  state  of  his  soul.  If  he  be  a man  of 
excitable  nerves  and  strong  imagination,  he  thinks  himself 
given  over  to  the  Evil  Power,  lie  doubts  whether  he  has 
not  committed  the  unpardonable  sin.  He  imputes  every 
wild  fancy  that  springs  up  in  his  mind  to  the  whisper  of  a 
fiend.  His  sleep  is  broken  by  dreams  of  the  great  judgment 
seat,  the  open  books,  and  the  unquenchable  fire.  If,  in  or- 
der to  escape  from  these  vexing  thoughts,  he  flies  to  amuse- 
ment or  to  licentious  indulgence,  the  delusive  relief  only 
makes  his  misery  darker  and  more  hopeless.  At  length  a 
turn  takes  place.  He  is  reconciled  to  his  offended  Maker. 
To  borrow  the  fine  imagery  of  one  who  had  himself  been 
thus  tried,  he  emerges  from  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of 
Death,  from  the  dark  lands  of  gins  and  snares,  of  quagmires 
and  precipices,  of  evil  spirits  and  ravenous  beasts.  The 
eunshine  is  ou  his  path,  He  ascends  the  Delectable  Moim* 


YOK  BANK®, 


489 


tains,  and  catches  from  their  summit  a distant  view  of  the 
shining  city  which  is  the  end  of  his  pilgrimage.  Then 
arises  in  his  mind  a natural  and  surely  not  a censurable  de- 
sire, to  impart  to  others  the  thoughts  of  which  his  own  heart 
is  full,  to  warn  the  careless,  to  comfort  those  who  are 
troubled  in  spirit.  The  impulse  which  urges  him  to  devote 
his  whole  life  to  the  teaching  of  religion  is  a strong  passion  in 
the  guise  of  a duty.  He  exhorts  his  neighbors  ; and,  if  he 
be  a man  of  strong  parts,  he  often  does  so  with  great  effect. 
He  pleads  as  if  he  were  pleading  for  his  life,  with  tears,  and 
pathetic  gestures  and  burning  words  ; and  he  soon  finds  with 
delight,  not  perhaps  wholly  unmixed  with  the  alloy  of  human 
infirmity,  that  his  rude  eloquence  rouses  and  melts  hearers 
who  sleep  very  composedly  while  the  rector  preaches  on  the 
apostolical  succession.  Zeal  for  God,  love  for  his  fellow-crea- 
tures, pleasure  in  the  exercise  of  his  newly  discovered  powers* 
impel  him  to  become  a preacher.  He  has  no  quarrel  with  the 
establishment,  no  objection  to  its  formularies,  its  govern- 
ment or  its  vestments.  He  would  gladly  be  admitted  among 
its  humblest  ministers.  But,  admitted  or  rejected,  he  feels 
that  his  vocation  is  determined.  His  orders  have  come 
down  to  him,  not  through  a long  and  doubtful  series  of 
Arian  and  Popish  bishops,  but  direct  from  on  high.  His 
commission  is  the  same  that  on  the  Mountain  of  Ascension 
was  given  to  the  Eleven.  Nor  will  he,  for  lack  of  human 
credentials,  spare  to  deliver  the  glorious  message  with 
which  he  is  charged  by  the  true  Head  of  the  Church.  For 
a man  thus  minded,  there  is  within  the  pale  of  the  estab- 
lishment no  place.  He  has  been  at  no  college ; he  cannot 
construe  a Greek  author  or  write  a Latin  theme  ; and  he 
is  told  that  if  he  remains  in  the  communion  of  the  Church, 
he  must  do  so  as  a hearer,  and  that,  if  he  is  resolved  to  be  a 
teacher,  he  must  begin  by  being  a schismatic.  His  choice  is 
soon  made.  He  harangues  on  Tower  Hill  or  in  Smithfield. 
A congregation  is  formed.  A license  is  obtained.  A plain 
brick  building,  with  a desk  and  benches,  is  run  up,  and  named 
Ebenezcr  or  Bethel.  In  a few  weeks  the  church  has  lost 
for  ever  a hundred  families,  not  one  of  which  entertained 
the  least  scruple  about  her  articles,  her  liturgy,  her  govern- 
ment, or  her  ceremonies. 

Far  different  is  the  policy  of  Rome,  The  ignorant 
enthusiast  whom  the  Anglican  Church  makes  an  enemy, 
and,  whatever  the  polite  and  learned  may  think,  a most 
dangerous  enemy,  the  Catholic  Church  makes  a champion. 


190  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

She  bids  him  nurse  his  beard,  covers  him  with  a gown  and 
hood  of  coarse  dark  stuff,  ties  a rope  round  his  waist,  and 
sends  him  forth  to'teach  in  her  name.  He  costs  her  nothing. 
He  takes  not  a ducat  away  from  the  revenues  of  her  bene- 
ficed  clergy.  He  lives  by  the  alms  of  those  who  respect  his 
spiritual  character,  and  are  grateful  for  his  instructions. 
He  preaches,  not  exactly  in  the  style  of  Massillon,  but  in  a 
way  which  moves  the  passions  of  uneducated  hearers  ; and  all 
his  influence  is  employed  to  strengthen  the  Church  of  wdiich 
he  is  a minister.  To  that  Church  he  becomes  as  strongly 
attached  as  any  of  the  cardinals  whose  scarlet  carriages  and 
liveries  crowd  the  entrance  of  the  palace  on  the  Quirinal. 
In  this  way  the  Church  of  Rome  unites  in  herself  all  the 
strength  of  establishment,  and  all  the  strength  of  dissent. 
With  the  utmost  pomp  of  a dominant  hierarchy  above,  she 
has  all  the  energy  of  the  voluntary  system  below.  It  would 
be  easy  to  mention  very  recent  instances  in  which  the 
hearts  of  hundreds  of  thousands,  estranged  from  her  by  the 
selfishness,  sloth,  and  cowardice  of  the  bcneficed  clergy, 
have  been  brought  back  by  the  zeal  of  the  begging  friars. 

Even  for  female  agency  there  is  a place  in  her  system. 
To  devout  women  she  assigns  spiritual  functions,  dignities, 
and  magistracies.  In  our  country,  if  a noble  lady  is  moved 
by  more  than  ordinary  zeal  for  the  propagation  of  religion, 
the  chance  is  that,  though  she  may  disapprove  of  no  dbctrine 
or  ceremony  of  the  Established  Church,  she  will  end  by 
giving  her  name  to  a new  schism.  If  a pious  and  benevolent 
woman  enters  the  cells  of  a prison  to  pray  with  the  most 
unhappy  and  degraded  of  her  own  sex,  she  does  so  without 
any  authority  from  the  Church.  No  line  of  action  is  traced 
out  for  her ; and  it  is  well  if  the  Ordinary  does  not  complain 
of  her  intrusion,  and  if  the  Bishop  does  not  shake  his  head 
at  such  irregular  benevolence.  At  Rome,  the  Countess  of 
Huntingdon  would  have  a place  in  the  calendar  as  St.  Selina, 
and  Mrs.  Fry  would  be  foundress  and  first  Superior  of  the 
Blessed  Order  of  Sisters  of  the  Jails. 

Place  Ignatius  Loyola  at  Oxford.  lie  is  certain  to  be- 
come the  head  of  a formidable  secession.  Place  John  Wesley 
at  Rome.  He  ifr  certain  to  be  the  first  General  of  a new 
society  devoted  to  the  interests  and  honor  of  the  Church. 
Place  St.  Theresa  in  London.  Her  restless  enthusiasm  fer- 
ments into  madness,  not  untinctured  with  craft.  She  be- 
comes the  prophetess,  the  mother  of  the  faithful,  holds  dis- 
putations with  fhe  devil,  issues  sealed  pardons  to  her  adorers, 


VON  RANKE. 


491 


and  lies  in  of  the  Shiloh.  Place  Joanna  Southcote  at  Rome. 
She  founds  an  order  of  barefooted  Carmelites,  every  one  of 
whom  is  ready  to  suffer  martyrdom  for  the  Church ; a 
solemn  service  is  consecrated  to  her  memory ; and  her  statue, 
placed  over  the  holy  water,  strikes  the  eye  of  every  stranger 
who  enters  St.  Peter’s. 

We  have  dwelt  long  on  this  subject,  because  we  believe 
that  of  the  many  causes  to  which  the  Church  of  Rome  owed 
her  safety  and  her  triumph  at  the  close  of  the  sixteenth  cen« 
tury,  the  chief  was  the  profound  policy  with  which  she 
used  the  fanaticism  of  such  persons  as  St.  Ignatius  and  St. 
Theresa. 

The  Protestant  party  was  now  indeed  vanquished  and 
humbled.  In  France,  so  strong  had  been  the  Catholic  re- 
action that  Henry  the  Fourth  found  it  necessary  to  choose 
between  his  religion  and  his  crown.  In  spite  of  his  clear 
hereditary  right,  in  spite  of  his  eminent  personal  qualities, 
he  saw  that,  unless  he  reconciled  himself  to  the  Church  of 
Rome,  he  could  not  count  on  the  fidelity  even  of  those 
gallant  gentlemen  whose  impetuous  valor  had  turned  the 
tide  of  battle  at  Ivry.  In  Belgium,  Poland,  and  Southern 
Germany,  Catholicism  had  obtained  complete  ascendency. 
The  resistance  of  Bohemia  was  put  down.  The  Palatinate 
was  conquered.  Upper  and  Lower  Saxony  were  overflowed 
by  Catholic  invaders.  The  King  of  Denmark  stood  forth 
as  the  Protector  of  the  Reformed  Churches  : he  was  defeated, 
driven  out  of  the  empire,  and  attacked  in  his  own  posses- 
sions. The  armies  of  the  House  of  Austria  pressed  on,  sub- 
jugated Pomerania,  and  were  stopped  in  their  progress  only 
by  the  ramparts  of  Stralsund. 

And  now  again  the  tide  turned.  Two  violent  outbreaks 
of  religious  feeling  in  opposite  directions  had  given  a char- 
acter to  the  history  of  a whole  century.  Protestantism  had 
at  first  driven  back  Catholicism  to  the  Alps  and  the  Pyrenees. 
Catholicism  had  rallied,  and  had  driven  back  Protestantism 
even  to  the  German  Ocean.  Then  the  great  southern  reac- 
tion began  to  slacken,  as  the  great  northern  movement  had 
slackened  before.  The  zeal  of  the  Catholics  waxed  cool. 
Their  union  was  dissolved.  The  paroxysm  of  religious  ex- 
citement was  over  on  both  sides.  One  party  had  degenerated 
as  far  from  the  spirit  of  Loyola  as  the  other  from  the  spirit 
of  Luther.  During  three  generations  religion  had  been  the 
mainspring  of  politics.  The  revolutions  and  civil  wars  of 
France,  Scotland,  Holland,  Sweden,  the  long  struggle  be- 


492  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

tween  Philip  and  Elizabeth,  the  bloody  competition  for  the 
Bohemian  crown,  had  all  originated  in  theological  disputes. 

But  a great  change  now  took  place.  The  contest  which 
was  raging  in  Germany  lost  its  religious  character.  It  was 
now,  on  one  side,  less'  a contest  for  the  spiritual  ascendency 
of  the  Church  of  Rome  than  for  the  temporal  ascendency  of 
the  House  of  Austria.  On  the  other  side,  it  was  less  a con- 
test for  the  reformed  doctrines  than  for  national  indepen- 
dence. Governments  began  to  form  themselves  into  new 
combinations,  in  which  community  of  political  interest  was 
far  more  regarded  than  community  of  religious  belief.  Even 
at  Rome  the  progress  of  the  Catholic  arms  was  observed 
with  mixed  feelings.  The  Supreme  Pontiff  was  a sovereign 
prince  of  the  second  rank,  and  was  anxious  about  the  balance 
of  power  as  well  as  about  the  propagation  of  truth.  It  was 
known  that  he  dreaded  the  rise  of  an  universal  monarchy 
even  more  than  he  desired  the  prosperity  of  the  Universal 
Church.  At  length  a great  event  announced  to  the  world 
that  the  war  of  sects  had  ceased,  and  that  the  war  of  states 
had  succeeded.  A coalition,  including  Calvinists,  Lutherans, 
and  Catholics,  was  formed  against  the  House  of  Austria.  At 
the  head  of  that  coalition  were  the  first  statesman  and  the 
first  warrior  of  the  age  ; the  former  a prince  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  distinguished  by  the  vigor  and  success  with  which 
he  had  put  down  the  Huguenots ; the  latter  a Protestant 
king  who  owed  his  throne  to  a revolution  caused  by  hatred 
of  Popery.  The  alliance  of  Richelieu  and  Gustavus  marks 
the  time  at  which  the  great  religious  struggle  terminated. 

The  war  which  followed  was  a war  for  the  equilibrium  of 
Europe.  When,  at  length,  the  peace  of  Westphalia  was 
concluded,  it  appeared  that  the  Church  of  Rome  remained 
in  full  possession  of  a vast  dominion,  which  in  the  middle  of 
the  preceding  century  she  seemed  td  be  on  the  point  of 
losing.  No  part  of  Europe  remained  Protestant  except  that 
part  which  had  become  thoroughly  Protestant  before  the  • 
generation  which  heard  Luther  preach  had  passed  away. 

Since  that  time  there  has  been  no  religious  war  between 
Catholics  and  Protestants  as  such.  In  the  time  of  Crom- 
well, Protestant  England  was  united  with  Catholic  France, 
then  governed  by  a priest,  against  Catholic  Spain.  William 
the  Third,  the  eminently  Protestant  hero,  was  at  the  head 
of  a coalition  which  included  many  Catholic  powers,  and 
which  was  secretly  favored  even  by  Rome,  against  the 
Catholic  Lewis.  In  the  time  of  Anne,  Protestant  England 


YON  RANKE. 


493 


and  Protestant  Holland  joined  with  Catholic  Savoy  and 
Catholic  Portugal,  for  the  purpose  of  transferring  the  crown 
of  Spain  from  one  bigoted  Catholic  to  another. 

The  geographical  frontier  between  the  two  rel’gions  has 
continued  to  run  almost  precisely  where  it  ran  at  the  close 
of  the  Thirty  Years’  War  ; nor  was  Protestantism  given  any 
proofs  of  that  “ expansive  power  ” which  has  been  ascribed 
to  it.  But  the  Protestant  boasts,  and  boasts  most  justly, 
that  wealth,  civilization,  and  intelligence  have  increased  far 
more  on  the  northern  than  on  the  southern  side  of  the  boun- 
dary, and  that  countries  so  little  favored  by  nature  as  Scot- 
land and  Prussia  are  now  among  the  most  flourishing  and 
best  governed  portions  of  the  world,  while  the  marble 
palaces  of  Genoa  are  deserted,  while  banditti  infest  the 
beautiful  shores  of  Campania,  while  the  fertile  sea-coast  of 
the  Pontifical  State  is  abandoned  to  buffaloes  and  wild  boars. 
It  cannot  be  doubted  that,  since  the  sixteenth  century,  the 
Protestant  nations  have  made  decidedly  greater  progress 
than  their  neighbors.  The  progress  made  by  those  nations 
in  which  Protestantism,  though  not  finally  successful,  yet 
maintained  a long  struggle,  and  left  permanent  traces,  has 
generally  been  considerable.  But  when  we  come  to  the 
Catholic  Land,  to  the  part  of  Europe  in  which  the  first  spark 
of  reformation  w^as  trodden  out  as  soon  as  it  appeared,  and 
from  which  proceeded  the  impulse  which  drove  Protestant- 
ism back,  we  find,  at  best,  a very  slow  progress,  and  on  the 
whole  a retrogression.  Compare  Denmark  and  Portugal. 
When  Luther  began  to  preach,  the  superiority  of  the  Portu- 
guese was  unquestionable.  At  present,  the  superiority  of 
the  Danes  is  no  less  so.  Compare  Edinburgh  and  Florence. 
Edinburgh  has  owed  less  to  climate,  to  soil,  and  to  the  fos- 
tering care  of  rulers  than  any  capital,  Protestant  or  Catho- 
lic. In  all  these  respects,  Florence  has  been  singularly  happy. 
Yet  whoever  knows  what  Florence  and  Edinburgh  were  in 
the  generation  preceding  the  Reformation,  and  what  they 
are  now,  will  acknowledge  that  some  great  cause  has,  dur- 
ing the  last  three  centuries,  operated  to  raise  one  part  of  the 
European  family,  and  to  depress  the  other.  Compare  the 
history  of  England  and  that  of  Spain  during  the  last  cen- 
tury. In  arms,  arts,  sciences,  letters,  commerce,  agricul- 
ture, the  contrast  is  most  striking.  The  distinction  is  not 
confined  to  this  side  of  the  Atlantic.  The  colonies  planted 
by  England  in  America  have  immeasurably  outgrown  in 
power  those  planted  by  Spain.  Yet  we  have  no  reason  to 


494  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

believe  that,  at  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century,  the 
Castilian  was  in  any  respect  inferior  to  the  Englishman, 
Our  firm  belief  is,  that  the  North  owes  its  great  civilization 
and  prosperity  chiefly  to  the  moral  effect  of  the  Protestant 
Reformation,  and  that  the  decay  of  the  Southern  countries 
of  Europe  is  to  be  mainly  ascribed  to  the  great  Catholic 
revival. 

About  a hundred  years  after  the  final  settlement  of  the 
boundary  line  between  Protestantism  and  Catholicism,  began 
to  appear  the  signs  of  the  fourth  great  peril  of  the  Church 
of  Rome.  The  storm  which  was  now  rising  against  her 
was  of  a very  different  kind  from  those  which  had  preceded 
it.  Those  who  had  formerly  attacked  her  had  questioned 
only  a part  of  her  doctrines.  A school  was  now  growing 
up  which  rejected  the  whole.  The  Albigenses,  the  Lollards, 
the  Lutherans,  the  Calvinists,  had  a positive  religious  sys- 
tem, and  were  strongly  attached  to  it.  The  creed  of  the 
new  sectaries  was  altogether  negative.  They  took  one  of 
their  premises  from  the  Protestants,  and  one  from  the  Catho- 
lics. From  the  latter  they  borrowed  the  principle  that 
Catholicism  was  the  only  pure  and  genuine  Christianity. 
With  the  former,  they  held  that  some  parts  of  the  Catholic 
system  were  contrary  to  reason.  The  conclusion  was  obvi- 
ous. Two  propositions,  each  of  which  separately  is  com- 
patible with  the  most  exalted  piety,  formed,  when  held  in 
conjunction,  the  groundwork  of  a system  of  irreligion.  The 
doctrine  of  Bossuet,  that  transubstantiation  is  affirmed  in 
the  Gospel,  and  the  doctrine  of  Tillotson,  that  transubstan- 
tiation is  an  absurdity,  when  put  together,  produced  by 
logical  necessity  the  inferences  of  Voltaire. 

Had  the  sect  which  was  rising  at  Paris  been  a sect  of 
mere  scoffers,  it  is  very  improbable  that  it  would  have  left 
deep  traces  of  its  existence  in  the  institutions  and  manners 
of  Europe.  Slere  negation,  mere  Epicurean  infidelity,  as 
Lord  Bacon  most  justly  observes,  has  never  disturbed  the 
peace  of  the  world.  It  furnishes  no  motive  for  action.  It 
inspires  no  enthusiasm.  It  has  no  missionaries,  no  cru- 
saders, no  martyrs.  If  the  Patriarch  of  the  Holy  Philo- 
sophical Church  had  contented  himself  with  making  jokes 
about  Saul’s  asses  and  David’s  wives,  and  with  criticizing 
the  p>oetry  of  Ezekiel  in  the  same  narrow  spirit  in  which  he 
criticized  that  of  Shakspeare,  Rome  would  have  had  little  to 
fear.  But  it  is  due  to  him  and  to  his  compeers  to  say  that 
the  real  secret  of  their  strength  lay  in  the  truth  which  wag 


VON  RANKS. 


*S5 


mingled  with  their  errors,  and  in  the  generous  enthusiasm 
which  was  hidden  under  their  flippancy.  They  were  men 
who,  with  all  their  faults,  moral  and  intellectual,  sincerely 
and  earnestly  desired  the  improvement  of  the  condition  of 
the  human  race,  whose  blood  boiled  at  the  sight  of  cruelty 
and  injustice,  who  made  manful  war,  with  every  faculty 
which  they  possessed,  on  what  they  considered  as  abuses,  and 
who  on  many  signal  occasions  placed  themselves  gallantly  be- 
tween the  powerful  and  the  oppressed.  While  they  assailed 
Christianity  with  a rancor  and  an  unfairness  disgraceful  to 
men  who  called  themselves  philosophers,  they  yet  had,  in 
far  greater  measure  than  their  opponents,  that  charity  to* 
wards  men  of  all  classes  and  races  which  Christianity  enjoins. 
Religious  persecution,  judicial  torture,  arbitrary  imprison- 
ment, the  unnecessary  multiplication  of  cap  tal  punishments, 
the  delay  and  chicanery  of  tribunals,  the  exaction  of  farmers 
of  the  revenue,  slavery,  the  slave  trade,  were  the  constant 
subjects  of  their  lively  satire  and  eloquent  disquisitions. 
When  an  innocent  man  was  broken  on  the  wheel  at  Tou- 
louse, when  a youth,  guilty  only  of  an  indiscretion,  was  be- 
headed at  Abbeville,  when  a brave  officer,  borne  down  by 
public  injustice,  was  dragged,  with  a gag  in  his  mouth,  to 
die  on  the  Place  de  Greve,  a voice  instantly  went  forth  from 
the  banks  of  Lake  Leman,  which  made  itseL  heard  from 
Moscow  to  Cadiz,  and  which  sentenced  the  unjust  judges  to 
the  contempt  and  detestation  of  all  Europe.  The  really  ef- 
ficient weapons  with  which  the  philosophers  assailed  the  evan- 
gelical faith  were  borrowed  from  the  evangelical  morality. 
The  ethical  and  dogmatical  parts  of  the  Gospel  were  unhap- 
pily turned  against  each  other.  On  one  side  was  a Church 
boasting  of  the  purity  of  a doctrine  derived  from  the  Apos- 
tles, but  disgraced  by  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew,  by 
the  murder  of  the  best  of  kings,  by  the  war  of  Cevennes,  by 
the  destruction  of  Port-Royal.  On  the  other  side  was  a 
sect  laughing  at  the  Scriptures,  shooting  out  the  tongue  at 
tie  sacraments,  but  ready  to  encounter  principalities  and 
powers  in  the  cause  of  justice,  mercy,  and  toleration. 

Irreligion,  accidentally  associated  with  philanthropy,  tri- 
umphed for  a time  over  religion  accidentally  associated  with 
political  and  social  abuses.  Everything  gave  way  to  the 
zeal  and  activity  of  the  new  reformers.  In  France,  every 
man  distinguished  in  letters  was  found  in  their  ranks.  Every 
year  gave  birth  to  works  in  which  the  fundamental  princi- 
ple^ of  the  Church  were  attacked  with  argument,  invective* 


496  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


and  ridicule.  The  Church  made  no  defence,  except  by  acts 
of  power.  Censures  were  pronounced ; books  were  seized, 
insults  were  offered  to  the  remains  of  infidel  writers ; but 
no  Bossuet,  no  Pascal,  came  forth  to  encounter  Voltaire. 
There  appeared  not  a single  defence  of  the  Catholic  doctrine 
which  produced  any  considerable  effect,  or  which  is  now 
even  remembered.  A bloody  and  unsparing  persecution, 
like  that  which  put  down  the  Albigenses,  might  have  put 
down  the  philosophers.  But  the  time  for  De  Montforts  and 
Dominies  had  gone  by.  The  punishments  which  the  priests 
were  still  able  to  inflict  were  sufficient  to  irritate,  but  not 
sufficient  to  destroy.  The  war  was  between  power  on  one 
side,  and  wit  on  the  other;  and  the  power  was  under  far 
more  restraint  than  the  wit.  Orthodoxy  soon  became  a 
synonym  for  ignorance  and  stupidity.  It  was  as  necessary 
to  the  character  of  an  accomplished  man  that  he  should  de- 
spise the  religion  of  his  country,  as  that  he  should  know  his 
letters.  The  new  doctrines  spread  rapidly  through  Christen- 
dom. Paris  was  the  capital  of  the  whole  continent.  French 
was  everywhere  the  language  of  polite  circles.  The  literary 
glory  of  Italy  and  Spain  had  departed.  That  of  Germany 
had  not  dawned.  That  of  England  shone,  as  yet,  for  the 
English  alone.  The  teachers  of  France  were  the  teachers  of 
Europe.  The  Parisian  opinions  spread  fast  among  the  edu- 
cated classes  beyond  the  Alps ; nor  could  the  vigilance  of 
the  Inquisition  prevent  the  contraband  importation  of  the 
new  heresy  into  Castile  and  Portugal.  Governments,  even 
arbitrary  governments,  saw  with  jfleasure  the  progress  of 
this  philosophy.  Numerous  reforms,  generally  laudable, 
sometimes  hurried  on  without  sufficient  regard  to  time,  to 
place,  and  to  public  feelings,  showed  the  extent  of  its  influ- 
ence. The  rulers  of  Prussia,  of  Russia,  of  Austria,  and  of 
many  smaller  states,  were  supposed  to  be  among  the  ini- 
tiated. 

The  Church  of  Rome  was  still,  in  outward  show,  as 
stately  and  splendid  as  ever  ; but  her  foundation  was  under- 
mined. No  state  had  quitted  her  communion  or  confisca- 
ted her  revenues  ; but  the  reverence  of  the  people  was  every- 
where departing  from  her. 

The  first  great  warning  stroke  was  the  fall  of  that  society 
which,  in  the  conflict  with  Protestantism,  had  saved  the 
Catholic  Church  from  destruction.  The  order  of  Jesus  had 
never  recovered  from  the  injury  received  in  tl 
with  Port-Royal.  It  was  now  still  more  rudely 


le  struggle 
assailed  by 


RAttRJBU 


49? 


the  philosophers.  Its  spirit  was  broken ; its  reputation  was 
tainted.  Insulted  by  all  the  men  of  genius  in  Europe,  con- 
demned by  the  civil  magistrates,  feebly  defended  by  the 
chiefs  of  the  hierarchy,  it  fell ; and  great  was  the  fall  of  it. 

The  movement  went  on  with  increasing  speed.  The 
first  generation  of  the  new  sect  passed  away.  The  doctrines 
of  Voltaire  were  inherited  and  exaggerated  by  successors, 
who  bore  to  him  the  same  relation  which  the  Anabaptists 
bore  to  Luther,  or  the  Fifth-Monarchy  men  to  Pym.  At 
length  the  Revolution  came.  Down  went  the  old  Church  of 
France,  with  all  its  pomp  and  wealth.  Some  of  its  priests 
purchased  a maintenance  by  separating  themselves  from 
Rome,  and  by  becoming  the  authors  of  a fresh  schism. 
Some,  rejoicing  in  the  new  license,  flung  away  their  sacred 
vestments,  proclaimed  that  their  whole  life  had  been  an  im- 
posture, insulted  and  persecuted  the  religion  of  which  they 
had  been  ministers,  and  distinguished  themselves,  even  in  the 
Jacobin  Club  and  the  Commune  of  Paris,  by  the  excess  of 
their  impudence  and  ferocity.  Others,  more  faithful  to  their 
principles,  were  butchered  by  scores  without  a trial,  drowned, 
shot,  hung  on  lamp-posts.  Thousands  fled  from  their  coun- 
try to  take  sanctuary  under  the  shade  of  hostile  altars.  The 
churches  were  closed;  the  bells  were  silent;  the  shrines 
were  plundered ; the  silver  crucifixes  were  melted  down. 
Buffoons,  dressed  in  copes  and  surplices,  came  dancing  the 
carmagnole  even  to  the  bar  of  the  Convention.  The  bust 
of  Marat  was  substituted  for  the  statues  of  the  martyrs  of 
Christianity.  A prostitute,  seated  on  a chair  of  state  in  the 
chancel  of  Notre  Dame,  received  the  adoration  of  thousands, 
who  exclaimed  that  at  length,  for  the  first  time,  those  an- 
cient Gothic  arches  had  resounded  with  the  accents  of  trul  h. 
The  new  unbelief  was  as  intolerant  as  the  old  superstition. 
To  show  reverence  for  religion  was  to  incur  the  suspicion  ( I 
disaffection.  It  was  not  without  imminent  danger  that  ihe 
priest  baptized  the  infant,  joined  the  hands  of  lovers,  or 
listened  to  the  confession  of  the  dying.  The  absurd  worship  « 
of  the  Goddess  of  Reason  was,  indeed,  of  short  deration; 
but  the  deism  of  Robespierre  and  Lepaux  was  not  less  hos- 
tile to  the  Catholic  faith  than  the  atheism  of  Clootz  and 
Chaumette. 

Nor  were  the  calamities  of  the  Church  confined  to  France. 
The  revolutionary  spirit,  attacked  by  all  Europe,  beat  all 
Europe  back,  became  conqueror  in  its  turn,  and  not  satis- 
fied with  the  Belgian  cities  and  the  rich  domains  of  the- 
Von-  IT  — 39. 


498  Macaulay's  miscellaneous  writings. 

spiritual  electors,  went  raging  over  the  Rhine  and  through 
the  passes  of  the  Alps.  Throughout  the  whole  of  the  great 
war  against  Protestantism,  Italy  and  Spain  had  been  the 
base  of  the  Catholic  operations.  Spain  was  now  the  obse- 
quious vassal  of  the  infidels.  Italy  was  subjugated  by  them. 
To  her  ancient  principalities  succeeded  the  Cisal  ine  repub- 
lic, and  the  Ligurian  republic,  and  the  Parthenopean  repub- 
lic. The  shrine  of  Loretto  was  stripped  of  the  treasures 
piled  up  by  the  devotion  of  six  hundred  years.  The  con- 
vents of  Rome  were  pillaged.  The  tricolored  flag  floated 
on  the  top  of  the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo.  The  successor  of 
St.  Peter  was  Carried  away  captive  by  the  unbelievers.  He 
died  a prisoner  in  their  hands;  and  even  the  honors  of 
sepulture  were  long  withheld  from  his  remains. 

It  is  not  strange  that,  in  bhe  year  1799,  even  sagacious 
observers  should  have  thought  that,  at  "ength  the  hour  of 
the  Church  of  Rome  was  come.  An  infidel  power  ascend- 
ant, the  Pope  dying  in  captivity,  the  most  illustrious  prel- 
ates of  France  living  in  a foreign  country  on  Protestant 
alms,  the  noblest  edifices  which  the  munificence  of  former 
ages  had  consecrated  to  the  worship  ol  God  turned  Into 
temples  of  Victory,  or  into  hanqueting-houses  for  political 
societies,  or  ir.to  Theophilanthropic  chapels,  such  signs 
might  well  be  supposed  to  indicate  the  approaching  end  of 
that  long  domination. 

But  the  end  was  not  yet.  Again  doomed  to  death  the 
milk-white  hind  was  still  fated  not  to  die.  Even  before  the 
funeral  rites  had  been  performed  over  the  ashes  of  Pius  the 
Sixth,  a great  reaction  had  commenced,  which,  after  the 
lapse  of  more  than  forty  years,  appears  to  be  sti  il  in  pro- 
gress. Anarchy  had  had  its  day.  A new  order  of  things 
rose  out  of  the  confusion,  new  dynasties,  new  laws,  new 
titles ; and  amidst,  them  emerged  the  ancient  religion.  The 
Arabs  ha  c a frhle  that  the  Great  Pyramid  was  built  by  the 
antediluvian  kings,  and  alone,  of  all  the  works  of  men,  bore 
the  weight  of  the/  flood'.  Such  as  this  was  the  fate  of  the 
Papacy.  It  had  been  buried  under  the  great  inundation; 
but  its  deep  foundations  had  remained  unshaken ; and,  when 
the  waters  abated,  it  appeared  alone  amidst  the  ruins  of  a 
world  which  had  passed  away.  The  republic  of  Holland 
was  gone,  and  the  empire  of  Germany,  and  the  great  Coun- 
cil of  Venice,  and  the  old  Helvetian  League,  and  the  House 
of  Bourbon,  and  the  parliaments  and  aristocracy  of  France. 
Europe  was  full  of  young  creations,  a French  empire,  a kmg- 


YON  RANKE. 


499 


dom  of  Italy,  a Confederation  of  the  Rhine.  Nor  had  the 
late  events  affected  only  territorial  limits  and  political  insti- 
tution?. The  distribution  of  property,  the  composition  and 
spirit  of  society,  had,  through  great  part  of  Catholic  Europe, 
undergone  a complete  change.  But  the  unchangeable 
Church  was  still  there. 

Some  future  historian,  as  able  and  temperate  as  Professor 
Ranke,  will,  we  hope,  trace  the  progress  of  the  Catholic 
revival  of  the  nineteenth  century.  We  feel  that  we  are 
drawing  too  near  our  own  time,  and  that,  if  we  go  on  we 
shall  be  in  danger  of  saying  much  which  may  be  supposed  to 
indicate,  and  which  will  certainly  excite  angry  feelings.  We 
will,  therefore,  make  only  one  more  observation,  which,  in 
our  opinion,  is  deserving  of  serious  attention. 

During  the  eighteenth  century  the  influence  of  the 
Church  of  Rome  was  constantly  on  the  decline.  Unbelief 
made  extensive  conquests  in  all  the  Catholic  countries  of 
Europe,  and  in  some  countries  obtained  a complete  as- 
cendency. The  Papacy  was  at  length  brought  so  low  as  to 
be  an  object  of  derision  to  infidels,  and  of  pity  rather  than 
of  hatred  to  Protestants.  During  the  nineteenth  century, 
this  fallen  Church  has  been  gradually  rising  from  her  de- 
pressed state  and  reconquering  her  old  dominion.  No  per- 
son who  calmly  reflects  on  what,  within  the  last  few  years, 
has  passed  in  Spain,  in  Italy,  in  South  America,  in  Ireland, 
in  the  Netherlands,  in  Prussia,  even  in  France,  can  doubt 
that  the  power  of  this  Church  over  the  hearts  and  minds  oi 
men,  is  now  greater  far  than  it  was  when  the  Encyclopaedia 
and  the  Philosophical  Dictionary  appeared.  It  is  surely 
remarkable,  that  neither  the  moral  .revolution  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  nor  the  moral  counter-revolution  of  the 
nineteenth,  should,  in  any  perceptible  degree,  have  added  to 
the  domain  of  Protestantism.  During  the  former  period, 
whatever  was  lost  to  Catholicism  was  lost  also  to  Christian- 
ity ; during  the  latter,  whatever  was  regained  by  Christian- 
ity in  Catholic  countries  was  regained  also  by  Catholicism. 
We  should  naturally  have  expected  that  many  minds,  on 
the  way  from  superstition  to  infidelity,  or  on  the  way  back 
from  infidelity  to  superstition,  would  have  stopped  at  an  inter- 
mediate point.  Between  the  doctrines  taught  in  the  schools 
of  the  Jesuits,  and  those  which  were  maintained  at  the  little 
supper  parties  of  the  Baron  If  olbach,  there  is  a vast  interval, 
in  which  the  human  mind,  it  should  seem,  might  find  for 
itself  some  resting-place  more  satisfactory  than  either  of  the 


m 


500  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

two  extremes.  And  at  the  time  of  the  Reformation,  millions 
found  such  a resting-place.  Whole  nations  then  renounced 
Popery  without  ceasing  to  believe  in  a first  cause,  in  a future 
life,  or  in  the  Divine  mission  of  Jesus.  In  the  last  century, 
on  the  other  hand,  when  a Catholic  renounced  his  belief  in 
the  real  presence,  it  was  a thousand  to  one  that  he  renounced 
his  belief  in  the  Gospel  too ; and,  when  the  reaction  took 
place,  with  belief  in  the  Gospel  came  back  belief  in  the  real 
presence. 

We  by  no  means  venture  to  deduce  from  these  phe- 
nomena any  general  law  ; but  we  think  it  a most  remark- 
able fact,  that  no  Christian  nation,  which  did  not  adopt  the 
principles  of  the  Reformation  before  the  end  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  should  ever  have  adopted  them.  Catholic  com- 
munities have,  since  that  time,  become  infidel  and  become 
Catholic  again ; but  none  has  become  Protestant. 

Here  we  close  this  hasty  sketch  of  one  of  the  most  impor- 
tant portions  of  the  history  of  mankind.  Our  readers  will 
have  great  reason  to  feel  obliged  to  us  if  we  have  interested 
them  sufficiently  to  induce  them  to  peruse  Professor  Ranke’s 
book.  We  will  only  caution  them  against  the  French  trans- 
lation, a performance  which,  in  our  opinion,  is  just  as  dis- 
creditable to  the  moral  character  of  the  person  from  whom 
it  proceeds  as  a false  affidavit  or  a forged  bill  of  exchange 
would  have  been,  and  advise  them  to  study  either  the 
original,  or  the  English  version,  in  which  the  sense  and 
spirit  of  the  original  are  admirably  preserved. 


LEIGH  HUNT* 

{Edinburgh  Review , January , 1841.) 

We  have  a kindness  for  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt.  We  form  our 
judgment  of  him,  indeed,  only  from  events  of  universal 
notoriety,  from  his  own  works  and  from  the  works  of  other 
writers,  who  have  generally  abused  him  in  the  most  ran- 
corous manner.  But,  unless  we  are  greatly  mistaken,  he  is 
a very  clever,  a very  honest,  and  a very  good-natured  man. 

* The  Dramatic  Works  of  Wycherley,  Congreve,  Vanbrugh,  and  Far, 
quhar,  with  Biographical  and  Critical  Notices • By  Lixgh  Hunt.  8vo.  Lou- 
don ; 1840. 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


501 


We  can  clearly  discern,  together  with  many  merits,  many 
faults  both  in  his  writings  and  in  his  conduct.  But  w<, 
really  think  that  there  is  hardly  a man  living  whose  merits 
have  been  so  grudgingly  allowed,  and  whose  faults  have 
been  so  cruelly  expiated. 

In  some  respects  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  is  excellently  qualified 
for  the  task  which  he  has  now  undertaken.  His  style,  in 
spite  of  its  mannerism,  nay,  partly  by  reason  of  its  manner 
ism,  is  well  suited  for  light,  garrulous,  desultory  ana , half 
critical,  half  biographical.  We  do  not  always  agree  with 
his  literary  judgments;  but  we  find  in  him  what  is  very 
rare  in  our  time,  the  power  of  justly  appreciating  and 
heartily  enjoying  good  things  of  very  different  kinds.  Ho 
can  adore  Shakspeare  and  Spenser  without  denying  poetical 
genius  to  the  author  of  Alexander’s  Feast,  or  fine  observa- 
tion, rich  fancy,  and  exquisite  humor  to  him  who  imagined 
Will  Honeycomb  and  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley.  He  has  paid 
particular  attention  to  the  history  of  the  English  drama* 
from  the  age  of  Elizabeth  down  to  our  own  time,  and  has 
every  right  to  be  heard  with  respect  on  that  subject. 

The  plays  to  which  he  now  acts  as  introducer  are,  with 
few  exceptions,  such  as,  in  the  opinion  of  many  very  respect- 
able people,  ought  not  to  be  reprinted.  In  this  opinion  we 
can  by  no  means  concur.  We  cannot  wish  that  any  work 
or  class  of  works  which  has  exercised  a great  influence  on 
the  human  mind,  and  which  illustrates  the  character  of  an 
important  epoch  in  letters,  politics  and  morals,  should  dis- 
appear from  the  world.  If  we  err  in  this  matter,  we  err 
with  the  gravest  men  and  bodies  of  men  in  the  empire,  and 
especially  with  the  Church  of  England,  and  with  the  great 
schools  of  learning  which  are  connected  with  her.  The 
whole  liberal  education  of  our  countrymen  is  conducted  on 
the  principle,  that  no  book  which  is  valuable,  either  by  rea- 
son of  the  excellence  of  its  style,  or  by  reason  of  the  light 
which  it  throws  on  the  history,  polity,  and  manners  of  na- 
tions,  should  be  withheld  from  the  student  on  account  of 
its  impurity.  The  Athenian  Comedies,  in  which  there  are 
scarcely  a hundred  lines  together  without  some  passage  of 
which  Rochester  would  have  been  ashamed,  have  been  re- 
printed at  the  Pitt  Press,  and  the  Clarendon  Press,  under  the 
direction  of  syndics  and  delegates  appointed  by  the  Uni- 
versities, and  have  been  illustrated  with  notes  by  reverend, 
very  reverend,  and  right  reverend  commentators.  Every 
year  the  most  distinguished  young  men  in  the  kingdom 


502  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  'waitings. 

are  examined  by  bishops  and  professors  n I divinity  in  such 
works  as  the  Lysistrata  of  Aristophanes  a /id  the  Sixth  Satire 
of  Juvenal.  There  is  certainly  somethii  ig  a.  little  ludicrous 
in  the  idea  of  a conclave  of  venerable  fa  diers  of  the  church 
praising  and  rewarding  a lad  on  account  of  his  intimate  ac- 
quaintance with  writings  compared  with  which  the  loosest 
tale  in  Prior  is  modest.  But,  for  our  o wn  part,  we  have  no 
doubt  that  the  great  societies  which  direct  the  education  of 
the  English  gentry  have  herein  judged  wisely.  It  is  un- 
questionable that  an  extensive  acquaintance  with  ancient 
literature  enlarges  and  enriches  the  mind.  It  is  unquestion- 
able that  a man  whose  mind  has  been  thus  enlarged  and  en- 
riched is  likely  to  be  far  more  useful  to  the  state  and  to  the 
church  than  one  who  is  unskilled,  or  little  skilled,  in  classi- 
cal learning.  On  the  other  hand,  we  find  it  difficult  to  be- 
lieve that,  in  a world  so  full  of  temptation  as  this,  any 
gentleman  whose  life  would  have  been  virtuous  if  he  had 
not  read  Aristophanes  and  Juvenal  will  be  made  vicious  by 
reading  them.  A man  who,  exposed  to  all  the  influences  of 
such  a state  of  society  as  that  in  which  we  live,  is  yet  afraid 
of  exposing  himself  to  the  influences  of  a few  Greek  or  Latin 
verses,  acts,  we  think,  much  like  the  felon  wffio  begged  the 
sheriffs  to  let  him  have  an  umbrella  held  over  his  head  from 
the  door  of  Newgate  to  the  gallows,  because  it  was  a driz- 
zling morning,  and  he  was  aj)t  to  take  cold. 

The  virtue  which  the  world  wants  is  a healthful  virtue, 
not  a valetudinarian  virtue,  a virtue  which  can  expose  itself 
to  the  risks  inseparable  from  all  spirited  exertion,  not  a vir- 
tue which  keeps  out  of  the  common  air  for  fear  of  infection, 
and  eschews  the  common  food  as  too  stimulating.  It  would 
be  indeed  absurd  to  attempt  to  keep  men  from  acquiring 
those  qualifications  which  fit  them  to  play  their  part  in  life 
with  honor  to  themselves  and  advantage  to  their  country, 
for  the  sake  of  preserving  a delicacy  which  cannot  be  pre- 
served, a delicacy  which  a walk  from  Westminster  to  the 
Temple  is  sufficient  to  destroy. 

But  we  should  be  justly  chargeable  with  gross  inconsist- 
ency if,  while  we  defend  the  policy  which  invites  the  youth 
of  our  country  to  study  sue?*  writers  as  Theocritus  and 
Catullus,  we  were  to  set  up  a cry  again**  a new  edition  of 
the  Country  Wife  or  the  Way  of  the  Worlu.  The  immoral 
English  writers  of  the  seventeenth  century  are  indeed  1 
less  excusable  than  those  of  Greece  and  Rome.  But  ti* 
worst  English  writings  of  the  seventeenth  century  are 


LEIGH  HUNT, 


503 


decent,  compared  with  much  that  has  been  bequeathed 
to  us  by  Greece  and  Rome.  Plato,  we  have  little  doubt, 
was  a much  better  man  than  Sir  George  Etherege.  But 
Plato  has  written  things  at  which  Sir  George  Etherege 
would  have  shuddered.  Buckhurst  and  Sedley,  even  in 
those  wild  orgies  at  the  Cock  in  Bow  Street  for  which 
they  were  pelted  by  the  rabble  and  fined  by  the  Court 
of  King’s  Bench,  would  never  have  dared  to  hold  such  dis- 
course as  passed  between  Socrates  and  Phaedrus  on  that  fine 
summer  day  under  the  plane-tree,  while  the  fountain  warbled 
at  their  feet,  and  the  cicadas  chirped  overhead.  If  it  be,  as 
we  think  it  is,  desirable  that  an  English  gentleman  should 
be  well  informed  touching  the  government  and  the  manners 
of  little  commonwealths  which  both  in  place  and  time  are 
far  removed  from  us,  whose  independence  has  been  more 
than  two  thousand  years  extinguished,  whose  language  has 
not  been  spoken  for  ages,  and  whose  ancient  magnificence  is 
attested  only  by  a few  broken  columns  and  friezes,  much 
more  must  it  be  desirable  that  he  should  be  intimately  ac- 
quainted with  the  history  of  the  public  mind  of  his  own 
country,  and  with  the  causes,  the  nature,  and  the  extent  of 
those  revolutions  of  opinion  and  feeling,  which,  during  the 
last  two  centuries,  have  alternately  raised  and  depressed  the 
standard  of  our  national  morality.  And  knowledge  of  this 
sort  is  to  be  very  sparingly  gleaned  from  Parliamentary  de- 
bates, from  state  papers,  and  from  the  works  of  grave  his- 
torians. It  must  either  not  be  acquired  at  all,  or  it  must  be 
acquired  by  the  perusal  of  the  light  literature  which  has  at 
various  periods  been  fashionable.  We  are  therefore  by  no 
means  disposed  to  condemn  this  publication,  though  we  cer- 
tainly cannot  recommend  the  handsome  volume  before  us  as 
an  appropriate  Christmas  present  for  young  ladies. 

We  have  said  that  we  think  the  present  publication  per- 
fectly justifiable.  But  we  can  by  no  means  agree  with  Mr. 
Leigh  Hunt,  who  seems  to  hold  that  there  is  little  or  no 
ground  for  the  charge  of  immorality  so  often  brought  against 
the  literature  of  the  Restoration.  We  do  not  blame  him  for 
not  bringing  to  the  judgment-seat  the  merciless  rigor  of 
Lord  Angelo ; but  we  really  think  that  such  flagitious  and 
impudent  offenders  as  those  who  are  now  at  the  bar  deserved 
at  least  the  gentle  rebuke  of  Escalus.  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt 
treats  the  whole  matter  a little  too  much  in  the  easy  style  of 
Lucio  ; and  perhaps  his  exceeding  lenity  disposes  us  to  bo 
somewhat  too  severe. 


604  macattlay*s  miscellaneous  WRITINGS. 

And  yet  it  is  not  en,sy  to  be  too  severe.  For  in  truth 
this  part  of  our  literature  is  a disgrace  to  our  language  and 
our  national  character.  It  is  clever,  indeed,  and  very  enter- 
taining ; but  it  is,  in  the  most  emphatic  sense  of  the  words, 
“earthly,  sensual,  devilish.”  Its  indecency,  though  per- 
petually such  as  is  condemned  not  less  by  the  rules  of  good 
taste  than  by  those  of  morality,  is  not,  in  our  opinion,  so 
disgraceful  a fault  as  its  singularly  inhuman  spirit.  We 
have  here  Belial,  not  as  when  he  inspired  Ovid  and  Ariosto,, 
“graceful  and  humane,”  but  with  the  iron  eye  and  cruel 
sneer  of  Mephistopheles.  We  find  ourselves  in  a world,  in 
which  the  ladies  are  like  very  profligate,  impudent  and  un- 
feeling men,  and  in  which  the  men  are  too  bad  for  any  place 
but  Pandsemonium  or  Norfolk  Island.  We  are  surrounded 
by  foreheads  of  bronze,  hearts  like  the  nether  millstone,  and 
tongues  set  on  fire  of  hell. 

Dryden  defended  or  excused  his  own  offences  and  those 
of  his  contemporaries  by  pleading  the  example  of  the  earlier 
English  dramatists ; and  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  seems  to  think 
that  there  is  force  in  the  plea.  We  altogether  differ  from 
his  opinion.  The  crime  charged  is  not  mere  coarseness  of 
expression.  The  terms  which  are  delicate  in  one  age  be- 
come gross  in  the  next.  The  diction  of  the  English  version 
of  the  Pentateuch  is  sometimes  such  as  Addison  would  not 
have  ventured  to  imitate  ; and  Addison,  the  standard  of 
moral  purity  m his  own  age,  used  many  phrases  which  are 
now  proscribed.  Whether  a thing  shall  be  designated  by  a 
plain  noun  substantive  or  by  a circumlocution  is  mere  mat- 
ter of  fashion.  Morality  is  not  at  all  interested  in  the  ques- 
tion. But  morality  is  deeply  interested  in  this,  that  what 
is  immoral  shall  not  be  presented  to  the  imagination  of  the 
young  and  susceptible  in  constant  connection  with  what  is 
attractive.  For  every  person  who  has  observed  the  opera- 
tion of  the  law  of  association  in  his  own  mind  and  in  the 
minds  of  others  knows  that  whatever  is  constantly  presented 
to  the  imagination  in  connection  with  what  is  attractive 
will  itself  become  attractive.  There  is  undoubtedly  a great 
deal  of  indelicate  writing  in  Fletcher  and  Massinger,  and 
more  than  might  be  wished  even  in  Ben  Jonson  and  Shak- 
speare,  who  are  comparatively  pure.  But  it  is  impossible 
to  trace  in  their  plays  any  systematic  attempt  to  associate 
vice  with  those  things  which  men  value  most  and  desire 
most,  and  virtue  with  everything  ridiculous  and  degrading. 
And  such  a systematic  attempt  we  find  in  the  whole  dra* 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


505 


matic  literature  of  the  generation  which  followed  the  return 
of  Charles  the  Second.  We  will  take,  as  an  instance  of  what 
we  mean,  a single  subject  of  the  highest  importance  to  the 
happiness  of  mankind,  conjugal  fidelity.  We  can  at  present 
hardly  call  to  mind  a single  English  play,  written  before  the 
civil  war,  in  which  the  character  of  a seducer  of  mar- 
ried women  is  represented  in  a favorable  light.  We  re- 
member many  plays  in  which  such  persons  are  baffled, 
exposed,  covered  with  derision,  and  insulted  by  triumphant 
husbands.  Such  is  the  fate  of  Falstaff,  with  all  his  wit 
and  knowledge  of  the  world.  Such  is  the  fate  of  Brisac  in 
Fletcher’s  Elder  Brother,  and  of  Ricardo  and  Ubaldo  in 
Massinger’s  Picture.  Sometimes,  as  in  the  Fatal  Dowry 
and  Love’s  Cruelty,  the  outraged  honor  of  families  is  re- 
paired by  a bloody  revenge.  If  now  and  then  the  lover  is 
represented  as  an  accomplished  man,  and  the  husband  as  a 
person  of  weak  or  odious  character,  this  only  makes  the 
triumph  of  female  virtue  the  more  signal,  as  in  Jonson’s 
Celia  and  Mrs.  Fitzdottrel,  and  in  Fletcher’s  Maria.  In 
general  we  will  venture  to  say  that  the  dramatists  of  the 
age  of  Elizabeth  and  James  the  First  either  treat  the  breach 
of  the  marriage-vow  as  a serious  crime,  or,  if  they  treat  it 
as  matter  for  laughter,  turn  the  laugh  against  the  gallant. 

On  the  contrary,  during  the  forty  years  which  followed 
the  Restoration,  the  whole  body  of  the  dramatists  invariably 
represent  adultery,  we  do  not  say  as  a peccadillo,  we  do  not 
say  as  an  error  which  the  violence  of  passion  may  excuse, 
but  as  the  calling  of  a fine  gentleman,  as  a grace  without 
which  his  character  would  be  imperfect.  It  is  as  essential 
to  his  breeding  and  to  his  place  in  society  that  he  should 
make  love  to  the  wives  of  his  neighbors  as  that  he  should 
know  French,  or  that  he  should  have  a sword  at  his  side. 
In  all  this  there  is  no  passion,  and  scarcely  anything  that 
can  be  called  preference.  The  hero  intrigues  just  as  he 
wears  a wig ; because,  if  he  did  not,  he  would  be  a queer 
fellow,  a city  prig,  perhaps  a Puritan.  All  the  agreeable 
qualities  are  always  given  to  the  gallant.  All  the  contempt 
and  aversion  are  the  portion  of  the  unfortunate  husband. 
Take  Dryden  for  example;  and  compare  Woodall  with 
Brainsick,  or  Lorenzo  with  Gomez.  Take  W ycherley ; and 
compare  Horner  with  Pinch  wife.  Take  Vanbrugh;  and 
compare  Constant  with  Sir  John  Brute.  Take  Farquhar  ; 
and  compare  Archer  with  Squire  Sullen.  Take  Congreve; 
and  compare  iJelliuour  with  Foiidiewii^  Careless  with  Si? 


606  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

Paul  Plyant,  or  Scandal  with  Foresight.  In  all  these  cases 
and  in  many  more  which  might  be  named,  the  dramatist 
evidently  does  his  best  to  make  the  person  who  commits  the 
injury  graceful,  sensible,  and  spirited,  and  the  person  who 
suffers  it  a fool,  or  a tyrant,  or  both. 

Mr.  Charles  Lamb,  indeed,  attempted  to  set  up  a defence 
for  this  way  of  writing.  The  dramatists  of  the  latter  part 
of  the  seventeenth  century  are  not,  according  to  him,  to  be 
tried  by  the  standard  of  morality  which  exists,  and  ought 
to  exist,  in  real  life.  Their  world  is  a conventional  world. 
Thei  heroes  and  heroines  belong,  not  to  England,  not  to 
Christendom,  but  to  an  Utopia  of  gallantry,  to  a fairyland, 
where  the  Bible  and  Burn’s  Justice  are  unknown,  where  a 
prank  which  on  this  earth  would  be  rewarded  with  the  pil- 
lory is  merely  matter  for  a peal  of  elvish  laughter.  A real 
Horner,  a real  Careless,  would,  it  is  admitted,  be  exceed- 
ingly bad  men.  But  to  predicate  morality  or  immorality  of 
the  Horner  of  Wycherley  and  the  Careless  of  Congreve  is 
as  absurd  as  it  would  be  to  arraign  a sleeper  for  his  dreams. 
“ They  belong  to  the  regions  of  pure  comedy,  where  no  cold 
moral  reigns.  When  we  are  among  them  we  are  among  a 
chaotic  people.  We  are  not  to  judge  them  by  our  usages. 
No  reverend  institutions  are  insulted  by  their  proceedings, 
for  they  have  none  among  them.  No  peace  of  families  is 
violated,  for  no  family  ties  exist  among  them.  There  is 
neither  right  nor  wrong,  gratitude  or  its  opposite,  claim  or 
duty,  paternity  or  sonship.” 

This,  is,  we  believe,  a fair  summary  of  Mr.  Lamb’s 
doctrine.  We  are  sure  that  we  do  not  wish  to  represent 
him  unfairly.  For  we  admire  his  genius ; we  love  the  kind 
nature  which  appears  in  all  his  writings ; and  we  cherish  his 
memory  as  much  as  if  we  had  known  him  personally.  But 
we  must  plainly  say  that  his  argument,  though  ingenious,  is 
altogether  sophistical. 

Of  course  we  perfectly  understand  that  it  is  possible  for 
a writer  to  create  a conventional  world  in  which  things 
forbidden  by  the  Decalogue  and  the  Statute  Book  shall 
be  lawful,  and  yet  that  the  exhibition  may  be  harmless, 
or  even  edifying.  For  example,  we  suppose  that  the  most 
austere  critics  would  not  accuse  Fenelon  of  impiety  and  im- 
morality on  account  of  his  Telemachus  and  his  Dialogues  of 
the  Dead.  In  Telemachus  and  the  Dialogues  of  the  Dead 
we  have  a false  religion,  and  consequently  a morality  which 
is  in  some  point  incorrect.  We  have  a right  and  a wrong 


LEIGH  HTT1STT. 


50? 


differing  froi  i the  right  and  the  wrong  of  real  life.  It  is 
represented  .ns  the  first  duty  of  men  to  pay  honor  to  .Jove 
and  Minerv  a.  Philocles,  who  employs  his  leisure  in 
making  graven  images  of  these  deities,  is  extolled  for  his 
piety  in  a way  which  contrasts  singularly  wfith  the  expres- 
sions of  Isaiah  on  the  same  subject.  The  dead  are  judged 
by  Minos,  and  rewarded  with  lasting  happiness  for  actions 
which  Fenelon  would  have  been  the  first  to  pronounce 
splendid  s:ins.  The  same  may  be  said  of  Mr.  Southey’s 
Mahoramedan  and  Hindoo  heroes  and  heroines.  In  Thal- 
aba,  to  speak  in  derogation  of  the  Arabian  impostor  is  blas- 
phemy : to  drink  wine  is  a crime  : to  perform  ablutions  and 
to  pay  honor  to  the  holy  cities  are  works  of  merit.  In  the 
curse  of  lx  eh  am  a,  Kailyal  is  commended  for  her  devotion 
to  the  statue  of  Mariataly,  the  goddess  of  the  poor.  But 
certainly  no  person  will  accuse  Mr.  Southey  of  having 
promote  i or  intended  to  promote  either  Islamism  or  Brah- 
minism. 

It  is  easy  to  see  why  the  conventional  worlds  of  Fenelon 
and  Mn  Southey  are  unobjectionable.  In  the  first  place, 
they  a e utterly  unlike  the  real  world  in  which  wo  live. 
The  st  ite  of  society,  the  laws  even  of  the  physical  world, 
are  so  different  from  those  with  which  we  are  familial',  that 
we  cannot  be  shocked  at  finding  the  morality  also  very  dif- 
ferent. But  in  truth  the  morality  of  these  conventional 
worlds  differs  from  the  morality  of  the  real  world  only 
In  points  where  there  is  no  danger  that  the  real  world  will 
£ver  go  wrong.  The  generosity  and  docility  of  Telemachus, 
ihe  fortitude,  the  modesty,  the  filial  tenderness  of  Kailyal, 
Stve  virtues  of  all  ages  and  nations.  And  there  was  very 
httle  danger  that  the  Dauphin  would  worship  Minerva,  or 
that  an  English  damsel  would  dance,  with  a bucket  bn  her 
iead,  before  the  statue  of  Mariataly. 

The  case  is  widely  different  with  what  Mr.  Charles  Lamb 
calls  the  conventional  world  of  Wycherley  and  Congreve. 
Here  the  garb,  the  manners,  the  topics  of  conversation  are 
those  of  the  real  town  and  of  the  passing  day.  The  hero 
is  in  all  superficial  accomplishments  exactly  the  fine  gen- 
tleman whom  every  youth  in  the  pit  would  gladly  resemble. 
The  heroine  is  the  fine  lady  whom  every  youth  in  the  pit 
would  gladly  marry.  The  scene  is  laid  in  some  place  which 
is  as  well  known  to  the  audience  as  their  own  houses,  in  St. 
James’s  Park,  or  Hyde  Park,  or  Westminster  Hall.  The 
lawyer  bustles  about  with  his  bag,  between  the  Common 


SOS 


MACAULAY  S MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Pleas  and  the  Exchequer.  The  Peer  calls  for  his  carriage 
to  go  to  the  House  of  Lords  on  a private  bill.  A hundred 
little  touches  are  employed  to  make  the  fictitious  world  ap- 
pear like  the  actual  world.  And  the  immorality  is  of  a sort 
which  never  can  be  out  of  date,  and  which  all  the  force  of 
religion,  law,  and  public  opinion  united  can  but  imperfectly 
restrain. 

In  the  name  of  art,  as  well  as  in  the  name  of  virtue,  we 
protest  against  the  principle  that  the  world  of  pure  comedy 
is  one  into  which  no  moral  enters.  If  comedy  be  an  imita- 
tion, under  whatever  conventions,  of  real  life,  how  is  it  pos- 
sible that  it  can  have  no  reference  to  the  great  rule  which 
directs  life,  and  to  feelings  which  are  called  forth  by  every 
incident  of  life?  If  what  Mr.  Charles  Lamb  says  were  cor- 
rect, the  inference  would  be  that  these  dramatists  did  not  in 
the  least  understand  the  very  first  principles  of  their  craft. 
Pure  landscape-painting  into  which  no  light  or  shade  enters, 
pure  portrait-painting  into  which  no  expression  enters,  are 
phrases  less  at  variance  with  sound  criticism  than  pure  comedy 
into  which  no  moral  enters. 

But  it  is  not  the  fact  that  the  world  of  these  dramatists 
is  a world  into  which  no  moral  enters.  Morality  constantly 
enters  into  that  world,  a sound  morality,  and  an  unsound 
morality ; the  sound  morality  to  be  insulted,  derided,  as- 
sociated with  everything  mean  and  hateful ; the  unsound 
morality  to  be  set  off  to  every  advantage,  and  inculcated  by 
all  methods,  direct  and  indirect.  It  is  not  the  fact  that 
none  of  the  inhabitants  of  this  conventional  world  feel  rev- 
erence for  sacred  institutions  and  family  ties.  Fondlewife, 
Pinchwife,  every  person  in  short  of  narrow  understanding 
and  disgusting  manners,  expresses  that  reverence  strongly. 
The  heroes  and  heroines,  too,  have  a moral  code  of  their 
own,  an  exceedingly  bad  one,  but  not,  as  Mr.  Charles  Lamb 
seems  to  think,  a code  existing  only  in  the  imagination  of 
dramatists.  It  is,  on  the  contrary,  a code  actually  received 
and  obeyed  by  great  numbers  of  people.  We  need  not  go 
to  Utopia  or  Fairyland  to  find  them.  They  are  near  at 
hand.  Every  night  some  of  them  cheat  at  the  hells. in  the 
Quadrant,  and  others  pace  the  Piazza  in  Co  vent  Garden. 
Without  flying  to  Nephelococcygia  or  to  the  Court  of  Queen 
Mab,  we  can  meet  with  sharpers,  hard-hearted  bullies,  impu- 
dent debauches,  and  women  worthy  of  such  paramours.  The 
morality  of  the  Country  Wife  and  the  Old  Bachelor  is  the 
morality,  not  as  Mr.  Charles  Lamb  maintains^  of  an  unreal 


LEIC n HtT5TT. 


509 


world,  but  of  a world  which  is  a great  deal  too  real.  It  is 
the  morality,  not  of  a chaotic  people  but  of  low  town-rakes, 
and  of  those  ladies  whom  the  newspapers  call  “ dashing 
Cyprians.”  And  the  question  is  simply  this,  whether  a man 
of  genius  who  constantly  and  systematically  endeavors  to 
make  this  sort  of  character  attractive,  by  uniting  it  with 
beauty,  grace,  dignity,  spirit,  a high  social  position,  popu- 
larity, literature,  wit,  taste,  knowledge  of  the  world,  brilliant 
success  in  every  undertaking,  does  or  does  not  make  an  ill 
use  of  his  powers.  We  own  that  we  are  unable  to  under- 
stand how  this  question  can  be  answered  in  any  wray  but  one. 

It  must  indeed  be  acknowledged,  in  justice  to  the  writers 
of  whom  we  have  spoken  thus  severely,  that  they  wrere,  to 
a great  extent,  the  creatures  of  their  age.  And  if  it  be  asked 
why  that  age  encouraged  immorality  which  no  other  age 
would  have  tolerated,  we  have  no  hesitation  in  answering 
that  this  great  depravation  of  the  national  taste  was  the 
effect  of  the  prevalence  of  Puritanism  under  the  Common- 
wealth. 

To  punish  public  outrages  on  morals  and  religion  is  un- 
questionably within  the  competence  of  rulers.  But  when  a 
government,  not  content  with  requiring  decency,  requires 
sanctity,  it  oversteps  the  bounds  which  mark  its  proper 
functions.  And  it  may  be  laid  down  as  a universal  rule 
that  a government  which  attempts  more  than  it  ought  will 
perform  less.  A lawgiver  who,  in  order  to  protect  distressed 
borrowers,  limits  the  rate  of  interest,  either  makes  it  im- 
possible for  the  objects  of  his  care  to  borrow  at  all,  or  places 
them  at  the  mercy  of  the  worst  class  of  usurers.  A law- 
giver who,  from  tenderness  for  laboring  men,  fixes  the 
hours  of  their  work  and  the  amount  of  their  wages,  is  certain 
to  make  them  far  more  wretched  then  he  found  them.  And 
so  a government  which,  not  content  with  repressing  scan- 
dalous excesses,  demands  from  its  subjects  fervent  and 
austere  piety,  will  soon  discover  that,  while  attempting  to 
render  an  impossible  service  to  the  cause  of  virtue,  it  has 
in  truth  only  promoted  vice. 

For  what  are  the  means  by  which  a government  can 
effect  its  ends  ? Two  only,  reward  and  punishment ; power- 
ful means,  indeed,  for  influencing  the  exterior  act,  but  alto- 
gether impotent  for  the  purpose  of  touching  the  heart.  A 
public  functionary  who  is  told  that  he  will  be  promoted  if 
he  is  a devout  Catholic,  and  turned  out  of  his  place  if  he  is 
not,  wall  probably  go  to  mass  every  morning,  exclude  meat 


610  MACAtJXAY*S  MISCELLANEOUS  WHITINGS. 

from  his  table  on  Fridays,  shrive  himself  regularly,  and  per- 
haps let  his  superiors  know  that  he  wears  a hair  shirt  next 
his  skin.  Under  a Puritan  government,  a person  who  is 
apprised  that  piety  is  essential  to  thriving  in  the  world  will 
be  strict  in  the  observance  of  the  Sunday,  or,  as  he  will  calk 
it,  Sabbath,  and  will  avoid  a theatre  as  if  it  were  plague- 
stricken.  Such  a show  of  religion  as  this  the  hope  of  gain 
and  the  fear  of  loss  will  produce,  at  a week’s  notice,  in  any 
abundance  which  a government  may  require.  But  under 
this  show,  sensuality,  ambition,  avarice,  and  hatred  retain 
unimpaired  power,  and  the  seeming  convert  has  only  added 
to  the  vices  of  a man  of  the  world  all  the  still  darker  vices 
which  are  engendered  by  the  constant  practice  of  dissimula- 
tion. The  truth  cannot  be  long  concealed.  The  public  dis- 
covers that  the  grave  persons  who  are  proposed  to  it  as 
patterns  are  more  utterly  destitute  of  moral  principle  and  of 
moral  sensibility  than  avowed  libertines.  It  sees  that  these 
Pharisees  are  farther  removed  from  real  goodness  than 
publicans  and  harlots.  And,  as  usual,  it  rushes  to  the  ex- 
treme opposite  to  that  which  it  quits.  It  considers  a high 
religious  profession  as  a sure  mark  of  meanness  and  depravity. 
On  the  very  first  day  on  which  the  restraint  of  fear  is  taken 
away,  and  on  which  men  can  venture  to  say  what  they  think, 
a frightful  peal  of  blasphemy  and  ribaldry  proclaims  that 
the  short-sighted  policy  which  aimed  at  making  a nation  of 
saints  has  made  a nation  of  scoffers. 

It  was  thus  in  France  about  the  beginning  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century.  Lewis  the  Fourteenth  in  his  old  age  became 
religious  : he  determined  that  his  subjects  should  be  religious 
too : he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  knitted  his  brows  if  he 
observed  at  his  levee  or  near  his  dinner-table  any  gentleman 
who  neglected  the  duties  enjoined  by  the  church,  and  re- 
warded piety  with  blue  ribands,  invitations  to  Marli,  govern- 
ments, pensions,  and  regiments.  Forthwith  Versailles  be- 
came, in  everything  but  dress,  a convent.  The  pulpits  and 
confessionals  were  surrounded  by  swords  and  embroidery. 
The  Marshals  of  France  were  much  in  prayer ; and  there 
was  hardly  one  among  the  Dukes  and  Peers  who  did  not 
carry  good  little  books  in  his  pocket,  fast  during  Lertt,  and 
communicate  at  Easter.  Madame  de  Maintenon,  who  had 
a great  share  in  the  blessed  work,  boasted  that  devotion  had 
become  quite  the  fashion.  A fashion  indeed  it  was ; and 
like  a fashion  it  passed  away.  No  sooner  had  the  old  king 
been  carried  to  St,  Denis  than  the  whole  court  unmasked, 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


511 


Every  man  hastened  to  indemnify  himself,  by  the  excess  of 
licentiousness  and  impudence,  for  years  of  mortification. 
The  same  persons  who,  a few  months  before,  with  meek 
voices  and  demure  looks,  had  consulted  divines  about  tho 
state  of  their  souls,  now  surrounded  the  midnight  table 
where,  amidst  the  bounding  of  champagne  corks,  a drunken 
prince,  enthroned  between  Dubois  and  Madame  de  Parabere, 
hiccoughed  out  atheistical  arguments  and  obscene  jests. 
The  early  part  of  the  reign  of  Lewis  the  F ourteenth  had 
been  a time  of  license ; but  the  most  dissolute  men  of 
that  generation  would  have  blushed  at  the  orgies  of  the 
Regency. 

It  was  the  same  with  our  fathers  in  the  time  of  the  Great 
Civil  War.  We  are  by  no  means  unmindful  of  the  great 
debt  which  mankind  owes  to  the  Puritans  of  that  time,  the 
deliverers  of  England,  the  founders  of  the  American  Com- 
monwealths. But  in  the  day  of  their  power,  those  men  com- 
mitted one  great  fault,  which  left  deep  and  lasting  traces  in 
the  national  character  and  manners.  They  mistook  the  end 
and  overrated  the  force  of  government.  They  determined, 
not  merely  to  protect  religion  and  public  morals  from  insult, 
an  object  for  which  the  civil  sword,  in  discreet  hands,  may 
be  beneficially  employed,  but  to  make  the  people  committed 
to  their  rule  truly  devout.  Yet,  if  they  had  only  reflected 
on  events  which  they  had  themselves  witnessed  and  in  which 
they  had  themselves  borne  a great  part,  they  would  have 
seen  what  was  likely  to  be  the  result  of  their  enterprise. 
They  had  lived  under  a government  which,  during  a long 
course  of  years,  did  all  that  could  be  done,  by  lavish  bounty 
and  by  rigorous  punishment,  to  enforce  conformity  to  the 
doctrine  and  discipline  of  the  Church  of  England.  No  per- 
son suspected  of  hostility  to  that  church  had  the  smallest 
chance  of  obtaining  favor  at  the  court  of  Charles.  Avowed 
dissent  was  punished  by  imprisonment,  by  ignominious  ex- 
posure, by  cruel  mutilations,  and  by  ruinous  fines.  And  the 
event  had  been  that  the  Church  had  fallen,  and  had,  in  its 
fall,  dragged  down  with  it  a monarchy  which  had  stood  six 
hundred  years.  The  Puritan  might  have  learned,  if  from 
nothing  else,  yet  from  his  own  recent  victory,  that  govern- 
ments which  attempt  things  beyond  their  reach  are  likely 
not  merely  to  fail,  but  to  produce  an  effect  directly  the 
opposite  of  that  which  they  contemplate  as  desirable. 

All  this  was  overlooked.  The  saints  were  to  inherit  the 

earth.  The  theatres  were  closed.  The  fine  arts  were  placed 


bl2  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

under  absurd  restraints.  * Vices  which  had  never  before  been 
even  misdemeanors  were  made  capital  felonies.  It  was 
solemnly  resolved  by  Parliament  “that  no  person  shall  be 
employed  but  such  as  the  House  shall  be  satisfied  of  his  real 
godliness.”  The  pious  assembly  had  a Bible  lying  on  the 
table  for  reference.  If  they  had  consulted  it  they  might 
have  learned  that  the  wheat  and  the  tares  grow  together 
inseparably,  and  must  either  be  spared  together  or  rooted 
up  together.  To  know  whether  a man  was  really  godly  was 
impossible.  But  it  was  easy  to  know  whether  he  had  a 
plain  dress,  lank  hair,  no  starch  in  his  linen,  no  gay  f urn  ituie 
in  his  house ; whether  he  talked  through  his  nose,  and 
showed  the  whites  of  his  eyes;  whether  he  named  his  chil- 
dren Assurance,  Tribulation,  and  Maher-shalal-hash-baz ; 
whether  he  avoided  Spring  Garden  when  in  town,  and  ab- 
stained from  hunting  and  hawking  when  in  the  country ; 
whether  he  expounded  hard  scriptures  to  his  troops  of 
dragoons,  and  talked  in  a committee  of  ways  and  means 
about  seeking  the  Lord.  These  were  tests  which  could 
easily  be  applied.  The  misfortune  was  that  they  were  tests 
which  proved  nothing.  Such  as  they  were,  they  were  em- 
ployed by  the  dominant  party.  And  the  consequence  was 
that  a crowd  of  impostors,  in  every  walk  of  life,  began  to 
mimic  and  to  caricature  what  were  then  regarded  as  the  out- 
ward signs  of  sanctity.  The  nation  was  not  duped.  The 
restraints  of  that  gloomy  time  were  such  as  would  have  been 
impatiently  borne,  if  imposed  by  men  who  were  universally 
believed  to  be  saints.  Those  restraints  became  altogether 
insupportable  when  they  were  known  to  be  kept  up  for  the 
profit  of  hypocrites.  It  is  quite  certain  that,  even  if  the 
royal  family  had  never  returned,  even  if  Richard  Cromwell 
nr  Henry  Cromwell  had  been  at  the  head  of  the  administra- 
tion, there  would  have  been  a great  relaxation  of  manners. 
Before  die  Restoration  many  signs  indicated  that  a period 
of  license  was  at  hand.  The  Restoration  crushed  for  a time 
the  Puritan  party,  and  placed  supreme  power  in  the  hands 
of  a libertine.  The  political  counter-revolution  assisted  the 
moral  counter-revolution,  and  was  in  turn  assisted  by  it.  A 
period  of  wild  and  desperate  dissoluteness  followed.  Even 
in  remote  manor-houses  and  hamlets  the  change  was  in  some 
degree  felt ; but  in  London  the  outbreak  of  debauchery  was 
appalling;  and  in  London  the  places  most  deeply  infected 
were  the  Palace,  the  quarters  inhabited  by  the  aristocracy, 
«tnd  the  Inns  of  Cou-  ft  was  on  the  support  of  these 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


518 


parts  of  the  town  that  the  playhouses  depended.  The  char- 
acter  of  the  drama  became  conformed  to  the  character  of  its 
patrons.  The  comic  poet  was  the  mouthpiece  of  the  most 
deeply  corrupted  part  of  a corrupted  society.  And  in  the 
plays  before  us  we  find,  distilled  and  condensed,  the  essential 
spirit  of  the  fashionable  world  during  the  Anti-puritan  re- 
action. 

The  Puritan  had  affected  formality ; the  comic  poet 
laughed  at  decorum.  The  Puritan  had  frowned  at  innocent 
diversions ; the  comic  poet  took  under  his  patronage  the 
most  flagitious  excesses.  The  Puritan  had  canted;  the 
comic  poet  blasphemed.  The  Puritan  had  made  an  affair 
of  gallantry  felony  without  benefit  of  clergy;  the  comic 
poet  represented  it  as  an  honorable  distinction.  The  Pm 
ritan  spoke  with  disdain  of  the  low  standard  of  popular 
morality ; his  life  was  regulated  by  a far  more  rigid  code ; 
his  virtue  was  sustained  by  motives  unknown  to  men  of  the 
world.  Unhappily  it  had  been  amply  proved  in  many 
cases,  and  might  well  be  suspected  in  many  more,  that  these 
high  pretensions  were  unfounded.  Accordingly,  the  fashion- 
able circles,  and  the  comic  poets  who  were  the  spokesmen 
of  those  circles,  took  up  the  notion  that  all  professions  of 
piety  and  integrity  were  to  be  construed  by  the  rule  of 
contrary ; that  it  might  well  be  doubted  whether  there  was 
such  a thing  as  virtue  in  the  world ; but  that,  at  all  events, 
a person  who  affected  to  be  better  than  his  neighbors  was 
sure  to  be  a knave. 

In  the  old  drama  there  had  been  much  that  was  repre- 
hensible. But  whoever  compares  even  the  least  decorous 
plays  of  Fletcher  with  those  contained  in  the  volume  before 
us  will  see  how  much  the  profligacy  which  follows  a period 
of  overstrained  austerity  goes  beyond  the  profligacy  which 
precedes  such  a period.  The  nation  resembled  the  demoniao 
in  the  New  Testament.  The  Puritans  boasted  that  the  un- 
clean spirit  was  cast  out.  The  house  was  empty,  swept,  and 
garnished ; and  for  a time  the  expelled  tenant  wandered 
through  dry  places  seeking  rest  and  finding  none.  But  the 
force  of  the  exorcism  was  spent.  The  fiend  returned  to  his 
abode ; and  returned  not  alone.  He  took  to  him  seven 
other  spirits  more  wicked  than  himself.  They  entered  in, 
and  dwelt  together : and  the  second  possession  was  worse 
than  the  first. 

We  will  now,  as  far  as  our  limits  will  permit,  pass  in 
review  the  writers  to  whom  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  has  introduced 
Vol.  II.— 83 


614  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writing®. 

ns.  Of  the  four,  Wycherley  stands,  we  think,  last  in  liter- 
ary merit,  but  lirst  in  order  of  time,  and  first,  beyond  all 
doubt,  in  immorality. 

William  Wycherley  was  born  in  1G40.  He  was  the 
eon  of  a Shropshire  gentleman  of  old  family,  and  of  what  was 
then  accounted  a good  estate.  The  property  was  estimated 
at  six  hundred  a year,  a fortune  which,  among  the  fortunes 
at  that  time,  probably  ranked  as  a fortune  of  two  thousand 
a year  would  rank  in  our  days. 

William  was  an  infant  when  the  civil  war  broke  out ; 
and,  while  he  was  still  in  his  rudiments,  a Presbyterian 
hierarchy  and  a republican  government  were  established  on 
the  ruins  of  the  ancient  church  and  throne.  Old  Mr. 
Wycherley  was  attached  to  the  royal  cause,  and  was  not 
disposed  to  intrust  the  education  of  his  heir  to  the  solemn 
Puritans  who  now  ruled  the  universities  and  public  schools. 
Accordingly  the  young  gentleman  was  sent  at  fifteen  to 
France.  He  resided  some  time  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Duke  of  Montausier,  chief  of  one  of  the  noblest  families  of 
Touraine.  The  Duke’s  wife,  a daughter  of  the  house  of 
Rambouillet,  was  a finished  specimen  of  those  talents  and 
accomplishments  for  which  her  race  was  celebrated.  The 
young  foreigner  was  introduced  to  the  splendid  circle  which 
surrounded  the  duchess,  and  there  he  appears  to  have 
learned  some  good  and  some  evil.  In  a few  years  he  re- 
turned to  his  country  a fine  gentleman  and  a Papist.  His 
conversion,  it  may  safely  be  affirmed,  was  the  effect,  not  of 
any  strong  impression  on  his  understanding  or  feelings,  but 
partly  of  intercourse  with  an  agreeable  society  in  which  the 
Church  of  Home  was  the  fashion,  and  partly  of  that  aver- 
sion to  Calvinistic  austerities  which  was  then  almost  uni- 
versal among  young  Englishmen  of  parts  and  spirit,  and 
which,  at  one  time,  seemed  likely  to  make  one-half  of  them 
Catholics,  and  the  other  half  Atheists. 

But  the  Restoration  came.  The  universities  were  again 
in  loyal  hands;  and  there  was  reason  to  hope  that  there 
would  be  again  a national  church  fit  for  a gentleman. 
Wycherley  became  a member  of  Queen’s  College,  Oxford, 
and  abjured  the  errors  of  the  Church  of  Rome.  The  some- 
what equivocal  glory  of  turning,  for  a short  time,  a good- 
for-nothing  Papist  into  a good-for-nothing  Protestant  is 
ascribed  to  Bishop  Barlow. 

Wycherley  left  Oxford  without  taking  a degree,  and  en- 
tered at  the  Temple,  where  he  lived  gayly  for  some  years, 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


515 


observing  the  humors  of  the  town,  enjoying  its  pleasures, 
and  picking  up  just  as  much  law  as  was  necessary  to  make 
the  character  of  a pettifogging  attorney  or  of  a litigious 
client  entertaining  in  a comedy. 

From  an  early  age  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  amusing 
himself  by  writing.  Some  wretched  lines  of  his  on  the 
Restoration  are  still  extant.  Had  he  devoted  himself  to 
the  making  of  verses,  he  would  have  been  nearly  as  far  be- 
low Tate  and  Blackinore  as  Tate  and  Blackmore  are  below 
Dryden.  His  only  chance  for  renown  would  have  been 
that  he  might  have  occupied  a niche  in  a satire,  between 
Flecknoe  and  Settle.  There  was,  however,  another  kind  of 
composition  in  which  his  talents  and  acquirements  quali- 
fied him  to  succeed;  and  to  that  he  judiciously  betook  him- 
self. 

In  his  old  age  he  used  to  say  that  he  wrote  Love  in  a 
Wood  at  nineteen,  the  Gentleman  Dancing-Master  at  twen- 
ty-one, the  Plain  Dealer  at  twenty-five,  and  the  Country 
Wife  at  one  or  two  and  thirty.  We  are  incredulous,  we 
own,  as  to  the  truth  of  this  story.  Nothing  that  we  know 
of  Wycherley  leads  us  to  think  him  incapable  of  sacrificing 
truth  to  vanity.  And  his  memory  in  the  decline  of  his  life 
played  him  such  strange  tricks  that  we  might  question  the 
correctness  of  his  assertion  without  throwing  any  imputa- 
tion on  his  veracity.  It  is  certain  that  none  of  his  plays 
was  acted  till  1672,  when  he  gave  Love  in  a Wood  to  the 
public.  It  seems  improbable  that  lie  should  resolve,  on  so 
important  an  occasion  as  that  of  a first  appearance  before 
the  world,  to  run  his  chance  with  a feeble  piece,  written  be- 
fore his  talents  were  ripe,  before  his  style  w^as  formed,  be- 
fore he  had  looked  abroad  into  the  world ; and  this  when 
he  had  actually  in  his  desk  two  highly  finished  plays,  the 
fruit  of  his  matured  powers.  When  wq  look  minutely  at 
the  pieces  themselves,  we  find  in  every  part  of  them  reason 
to  suspect  the  accuracy  of  Wycherley’s  statement.  In  the 
first  scene  of  Love  in  a Wood,  to  go  no  further,  we  find 
many  passages  which  he  could  not  have  written  when  he 
was  nineteen.  There  is  an  allusion  to  gentlemen’s  periwigs, 
which  first  came  into  fashion  in  1663  ; an  allusion  to  guineas, 
which  were  first  struck  in  1663  ; an  allusion  to  the  vests 
which  Charles  ordered  to  be  worn  at  court  in  1666 ; an  al- 
lusion to  the  fire  of  1666  ; and  several  political  allusions 
which  must  be  assigned  to  times  later  than  the  year  of  the 
Restoration,  to  times  when  the  government  and  tfye  city 


516 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  -writings. 


were  opposed  to  each  other,  and  when  the  Presbyterian  min*, 
isters  had  been  driven  from  the  parish  churches  to  the  con- 
venticles. But  it  is  needless  to  dwell  on  particular  expres- 
sions. The  whole  air  and  spirit  of  the  piece  belong  to  a 
period  subsequent  to  that  mentioned  by  Wycherley.  As  to 
the  Plain  Dealer,  which  is  said  to  have  been  written  when 
he  was  twenty-live,  it  contains  one  scene  unquestionably 
written  after  1675,  several  which  .are  later  than  1G68,  and 
scarcely  a line  which  can  have  been  composed  before  the 
end  of  1GG6. 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  age  at  which  Wycherley 
composed  his  plays,  it  is  certain  that  ho  did  not  bring  them 
before  the  public  till  ho  was  upwards  of  thirty.  In  1G72, 
Love  in  a Wood  was  acted  with  more  success  than  it  de- 
served, and  this  event  produced  a great  change  in  the  for- 
tunes of  the  author:  The  Duchess  of  Cleveland  cast  her 

eyes  upon  him,  and  was  pleased  with  his  appearance.  This 
abandoned  woman,  not  content  with  her  complaisant  hus- 
band and  her  royal  keeper,  lavished  her  fondness  on  a crowd 
of  paramours  of  all  ranks,  from  dukes  to  rope-dancers.  In 
the  time  of  the  commonwealth  she  commenced  her  career 
of  gallantry,  and  terminated  it  under  Anne,  by  marrying, 
when  a great-grandmother,  that  worthless  fop,  Beau  Field- 
ing. It  is  not  strange  that  she  should  have  regarded 
Wycherley  with  favor.  His  figure  was  commanding,  his 
countenance  strikingly  handsome,  his  look  and  deportment 
full  of  grace  and  dignity.  lie  had,  as  Pope  said  long  after, 
u the  true  nobleman  look,”  the  look  which  seems  to  indicate 
superiority,  and  a not  unbecoming  consciousness  of  superior- 
ity. Ilis  hair,  indeed,  as  he  says  in  one  of  his  poems,  was 
prematurely  gray.  But  in  that  age  of  periwigs  this  misfor- 
tune was  of  little  importance...  The  Duchess  admired  him, 
and  proceeded  to  make  love  to  him,  after  the  fashion  of  the 
coarse-minded  and  shameless  circle  to  which  she  belonged. 
In  the  Ring,  when  the  crowd  of  beauties  and  fine  gentlemen 
was  thickest,  she  put  her  head  out  of  her  coach- window,  and 
bawled  to  him,  “ Sir,  you  are  a rascal;  you  are  a villain 
and,  if  she  is  not  belied,  she  added  another  phrase  of  abuse 
which  we  will  not  quote,  but  of  v nidi  we  may  say  that  it 
might  most  justly  have  been  applied  to  her  own  children. 
Wycherley  called  on  her  Grace  the  next  day,  and  with  great 
humility  begged  to  know  in  what  way  lie  had  been  so  un- 
fortunate as  to  disoblige  her.  Thus  began  an  intimacy  from 
prhicti  the  poet  probably  expected  wealth  and  honors.  Noi 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


517 


were  such  expectations  unreasonable.  A handsome  young 
fellow  about  the  court,  known  by  the  name  of  Jack  Churchill, 
was,  about  the  same  time,  so  lucky  as  to  become  the  object 
of  a short-lived  fancy  of  the  Duchess.  She  had  presented 
him  with  four  thousand  five  hundred  pounds,  the  price,  in 
all  probability,  of  some  title  or  pardon.  The  prudent  youth 
iiad  lent  the  money  on  high  interest  and  on  landed  security ; 
and  this  judicious  investment  was  the  beginning  of  the  most 
splendid  private  fortune  in  Europe.  Wycherley  was  not  so 
lucky.  The  partiality  with  which  the  great  lady  regarded 
him  was  indeed  the  talk  of  the  whole  town  ; and  sixty  years 
later  old  men  who  remembered  those  days  told  Voltaire  that 
she  often  stole  from  the  court  to  her  lover’s  chambers  in  the 
Temple,  disguised  like  a country  girl,  with  a straw  hat  on 
her  head,  pattens  on  her  feet,  and  a basket  in  her  hand. 
The  poet  was  indeed  too  happy  and  proud  to  be  discreet. 
He  dedicated  to  the  Duchess  the  play  which  had  led  to  their 
acquaintance,  and  in  the  dedication  expressed  himsell  in 
terms  which  could  not  but  confirm  the  reports  which  had 
gone  abroad.  But  at  Whitehall  such  an  affair  was  regarded 
in  no  serious  light.  The  lady  was  not  afraid  to  bring  Wych- 
erley to  court,  and  to  introduce  him  to  a splendid  society 
with  which,  as  far  as  appears,  he  had  never  before  mixed. 
The  easy  king,  who  allowed  to  his  mistresses  the  same  lib- 
* erty  which  he  claimed  for  himself,  was  pleased  with  the  con- 
versation and  manners  of  his  new  rival.  So  high  did  Wych- 
erley stand  m the  royal  favor  that  once,  when  he  was  con- 
fined by  a fever  to  his  lodgings  in  Bow  street,  Charles,  who, 
with  all  his  faults,  was  certainly  a man  of  social  and  affable 
disposition,  called  on  him,  sat  by  his  bed,  advised  him  to  try 
change  of  air,  and  gave  him  a handsome  sum  of  money  to 
defray  the  expense  of  a journey.  Buckingham,  then  Master 
of  the  Horse,  and  one  of  that  infamous  ministry  known  by 
the  name  of  the  Cabal,  had  been  one  of  the  Duchess’s  in- 
numerable paramours.  He  at  first  showed  some  symptoms 
of  jealousy ; but  he  soon,  after  his  fashion,  veered  round 
from  anger  to  fondness,  and  gave  Wycherley  a commission 
in  his  own  regiment  and  a place  m the  royal  household. 

It  would  be  unjust  to  Wycherley’s  memory  not  to  mention 
here  the  only  good  action,  as  far  as  we  know,  of  his  whole 
life.  He  is  said  to  have  made  great  exertions  to  obtain  the 
patronage  of  Buckingham  for  the  illustrious  author  of  Hudi- 
bras,  who  was  now  sinking  into  an  obscure  grave,  neglected 
by  a nation  proud  of  \iis  genius,  and  by  a court  which  he 


ms 


macattlay’s  miscellaneous  writings* 


had  served  too  well. . His  Grace  consented  to  see  poor  But- 
ler; and  an  appointment  was  made.  But  unhappily  two 
pretty  women  passed  by ; the  volatile  Duke  ran  after  them  ; 
the  opportunity  was  lost,  and  could  never  be  regained. 

The  second  Dutch  war,  the  most  disgraceful  war  in  the 
whole  history  of  England,  was  now  raging.  It  was  not  in 
that  age  considered  as  by  any  means  necessary  that  a naval 
officer  should  receive  a professional  education.  Young  men 
of  rank,  who  were  hardly  able  to  keep  their  feet  in  a breeze, 
served  on  board  of  the  King’s  ships,  sometimes  with  com- 
missions, and  sometimes  as  volunteers.  Mulgrave,  Dorset, 
Rochester,  and  many  others,  left  the  playhouses  and  the 
Mall  for  hammocks  and  salt  pork,  and,  ignorant  as  they 
were  of  the  rudiments  of  naval  service,  showed,  at  least,  on 
the  clay  of  battle,  the  courage  which  is  seldom  wanting  in 
an  English  gentleman.  All  good  judges  of  maritime  affairs 
complained  that,  under  this  system,  the  ships  were  grossly 
mismanaged,  and  that  the  tarpaulins  contracted  the  vices, 
without  acquiring  the  graces,  of  the  court.  But  on  this  sub- 
ject, as  on  every  other  where  the  interests  or  whims  of  fa- 
vorites were  concerned,  the  government  of  Charles  was  deaf 
to  all  remonstrances.  Wycherley  did  not  choose  to  be  out 
of  the  fashion.  He  embarked,  was  present  at  a battle,  and 
celebrated  it,  on  his  return,  in  a copy  of  verses  too  bad  for 
the  bellman.* 

About  the  same  time,  he  brought  on  the  stage  his  second 
piece,  the  Gentleman  Dancing-Master.  The  biographers  say 
nothing,  as  far  as  we  remember,  about  the  fate  of  this  play. 
There  is,  however,  reason  to  believe  that,  though  certainly 
far  superior  to  Love  in  a Wood,  it  was  not  equally  success- 
ful. It  was  first  tried  at  the  west  end  of  the  town,  and,  as 
the  poet  confessed,  “ would  scarce  do  there.”  It  was  then 
performed  in  Salisbury  Court,  but,  as  it  should  seem,  with 
no  better  event.  For,  in  the  prologue  to  the  Country  Wife, 

* Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  supposes  that  the  battle  at  which  Wycherley  was  present 
was  that  which  the  Duke  of  York  gained  over  Opdam,  in  1605.  We  believe  that 
it  was  one  of  the  battles  between  linpert  and  De  Kuyter,  in  1673. 

The  point  is  of  no  importance  ; and  Tiere  cannot  be  said  to  be  much  evidence 
either  way.  We  offer,  however,  to  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt’s  consideration  three  argu- 
ments, of  no  great  weight  certainly,  yet  such  as  ought,  we  think,  to  prevail  in 
the  absence  of  better.  First,  it  is  not  very  likely  that  a young  Templar,  quite 
unknown  in  the  world, — and  Wycherley  was  such  in  1665, — should  have  quitted 
his  chambers  to  go  to  sea.  On  the  other  hand,  it  would  be  in  the  regular  course 
of  things,  that,  when  a courtier  and  an  equerry,  he  should  offer  his  services. 
Secondly,  his  verses  appear  to  have  been  written  after  a drawn  battle,  like  those 
of  1673,  and  not  after  a complete  vi<  tory,  like  that  of  1665.  Thirdly,  in  the  epi- 
logue to  the  Gentleman  Dancing-Master,  written  in  1673,  he  says  that  “all 
gentlemen  must  pack  to  sea;”  an  expression  which  makes  it  probable  that 
he  did  not  himself  mean  to  stay  behind.  ** 


LEIGH  HOTTT. 


619 


Wycherley  described  himself  as  u the  late  so  baffled  scrib- 
bler.” 

In  1675,  the  Country  Wife  was  performed  with  brilliant 
success,  which,  in  a literary  point  of  view,  was  not  wholly 
unmerited.  For,  though  one  of  the  most  profligate  and 
heartless  of  human  compositions,  it  is  the  elaborate  produc- 
tion of  a mind,  not  indeed  rich,  original,  or  imaginative,  but 
ingenious,  observant,  quick  to  seize  hints,  and  patient  of  the 
toil  of  polishing. 

The  Plain  Dealer,  equally  immoral  and  equally  well 
written,  appeared  in  1677.  At  first  this  piece  pleased  the 
people  less  than  the  critics  ; but  after  a time  its  unquestion- 
able merits  and  the  zealous  support  of  Lord  Dorset,  whose 
influence  in  literary  and  fashionable  society  was  unbounded, 
established  it  in  the  public  favor. 

The  fortune  of  Wycherley  Avas  now  in  the  zenith,  and 
began  to' decline.  A long  life  was  still  before  him.  But  it 
Avas  destined  to  be  filled  Avith  nothing  but  shame  and  Avretch- 
edness,  domestic  dissensions,  literary  failures,  and  pecuniary 
embarrassments. 

The  King,  avIio  Avas  looking  about  for  an  accomplished 
man  to  conduct  the  education  of  his  natural  son,  the  young 
Duke  of  Richmond,  at  length  fixed  on  W ycherley.  The  poet, 
exulting  in  his  good  luck,  Arent  doAvn  to  amuse  himself  at 
Tunbridge  Wells,  looked  into  a bookseller’s  shop  on  the 
Pantiles,  and,  to  his  great  delight,  heard  a handsome  Avoman 
ask  for  the  Plain  Dealer  Avhich  had  just  been  published.  He 
made  acquaintance  with  the  lady,  Avho  proAred  to  be  the 
Countess  of  Drogheda,  a gay  young  Avidow,  Avith  an  ample 
jointure.  She  was  charmed  witlr  his  person  and  his  Avit, 
and,  after  a short  flirtation,  agreed  to  become  his  Avife, 
Wycherley  seems  to  have  been  apprehensive  that  this  con- 
nection might  not  suit  Avell  A\riththe  King’s  plans  respecting 
the  Duke  of  Richmond.  He  accordingly  prevailed  on  the 
lady  to  consent  to  a private  marriage.  All  came  out. 
Charles  thought  the  conduct  of  Wycherley  both  disrespect- 
ful and  disingenuous.  Other  causes  probably  assisted  to 
alienate  the  sovereign  from  the  subject  Avho  had  lately  been 
so  highly  favored.  Buckingham  was  iioav  in  opposition,  and 
had  been  committed  to  the  Tower ; not,  as  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt 
supposes,  on  a charge  of  treason,  but  by  an  order  of  the 
House  of  Lords  for  some  expressions  which  he  had  used  in 
debate.  Wycherley  Avrote  some  bad  lines  in  praise  of  his 
imprisoned  patron,  which,  if  they  came  to  the  knowledge 


520  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

of  the  King,  would  certainly  have  made  his  majesty  very 
angry.  The  favor  of  the  court  was  completely  withdrawn 
from  the  poet.  An  amiable  woman  with  a large  fortune 
might  indeed  have  been  an  ample  compensation  for  the  loss. 
But  Lady  Drogheda  was  ill-tempered,  imperious,  and  ex- 
travagantly jealous.  She  had  herself  been  a maid  of  honor 
at  Whitehall.  She  well  knew  in  what  estimation  conjugal 
fidelity  was  held  among  the  fine  gentlemen  there,  and 
watched  her  town  husband  as  assiduously  as  Mr.  Pinch  wife 
watched  his  country  wife.  The  unfortunate  wit  was,  in- 
deed, allowed  to  meet  his  friends  at  a tavern  opposite  to 
his  own  house.  But  on  such  occasions  the  windows  were 
always  open,  in  order  that  her  Ladyship,  who  was  posted 
on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  might  be  satisfied  that  no 
woman  was  of  the  party. 

The  death  of  Lady  Drogheda  released  the  poet  from 
this  distress ; but  a series  of  disasters,  in  rapid  succession, 
broke  down  his  health,  his  spirits,  and  his  fortune.  His 
wife  meant  to  leave  him  a good  property,  and  left  him  only 
a lawsuit.  His  father  could  not  or  would  not  assist  him. 
Wycherley  was  at  length  thrown  into  the  Fleet,  and  lam 
guished  there  during  seven  years  utterly  forgotten,  as  it 
should  seem,  by  the  gay  and  lively  circle  of  which  he  had 
been  a distinguished  ornament.  In  the  extremity  of  his 
distress  he  implored  the  publisher  who  had  been  enriched 
by  the  sale  of  his  works  to  lend  him  twenty  pounds,  and 
was  refused.  His  comedies,  however,  still  kept  possession 
of  the  stage,  and  drew  great  audiences  which  troubled 
themselves  little  about  the  situation  of  the  author.  At 
length  James  the  Second,  who  had  now  succeeded  to  the 
throne,  happened  to  go  to  the  theatre  on  an  evening  when 
the  Plain  Dealer  was  acted.  He  was  pleased  by  the  per- 
formance, and  touched  by  the  fate  of  the  writer,  whom  he 
probably  remembered  as  one  of  the  gayest  and  handsomest 
of  his  brother’s  courtiers.  The  King  determined  to  pay 
Wycherley’s  debts,  and  to  settle  on  the  unfortunate  poet  a 
pension  of  two  hundred  pounds  a year.  This  munificence 
on  the  part  of  a prince  who  was  little  in  the  habit  of  re- 
warding literary  merit,  and  whose  whole  soul  was  devoted 
to  the  interests  of  his  church,  raises  in  us  a surmise  which 
Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  will,  we  fear,  pronounce  very  uncharitable. 
We  cannot  help  suspecting  that  it  was  at  this  time  that 
Wycherley  returned  to  the  communion  of  the  Church  of 
Rome.  That  he  did  return  to  the  communion  of  the  Church 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


521 


of  Rome  is  certain.  The  date  of  his  reconversion,  as  far 
"tve  know,  has  never  been  mentioned  by  any  biographer 
We  believe  that,  if  we  place  it  at  this  time,  we  do  no  in 
justice  to  the  character  either  of  Wycherley  or  James. 

Not  long  after,  old  Mr.  Wycherley  died;  and  his  son, 
how  past  the  middle  of  life,  came  to  the  family  estate. 
Still,  however,  he  was  not  at  his  ease.  His  embarrassments 
were  great : his  property  was  strictly  tied  up ; and  he  was 
on  very  bad  terms  with  the  heir-at-law.  He  appears  to  have 
led,  during  a long  course  of  years,  that  most  wretched  life, 
the  life  of  a vicious  old  boy  about  town.  Expensive  tastes 
with  little  money,  and  licentious  appetites  with  declining 
vigor,  were  the  just  penance  for  his  early  irregularities.  A 
severe  illness  had  produced  a singular  effect  on  his  intellect. 
His  memory  played  him  pranks  stranger  than  almost  any 
that  are  to  be  found  in  the  history  of  that  strange  faculty. 
It  seemed  to  be  at  once  preternaturally  strong,  and  preter- 
naturally  weak.  If  a book  was  read  to  him  before  he  went 
to  bed,  he  would  wake  the  next  morning  with  his  mind  full 
of  the  thoughts  and  expressions  which  he  had  heard  over 
night ; and  he  would  write  them  down,  without  in  the  least 
suspecting  that  they  were  not  his  own.  In  his  verses  the 
same  ideas,  and  even  the  same  words,  came  over  and  over 
again  several  times  in  short  composition.  His  fine  person 
bore  the  marks  of  age,  sickness,  and  sorrow ; and  he 
mourned  for  his  departed  beauty  with  an  effeminate  regret. 
He  could  not  look  without  a sigh  at  the  portrait  which  Lely 
had  painted  of  him,  when  he  was  only  twenty-eight,  and 
often  murmured,  Quantum  mutatus  ab  illo.  He  was  still 
nervously  anxious  about  his  literary  reputation,  and,  not 
content  with  the  fame  which  he  still  possessed  as  a dramatist, 
was  determined  to  be  renowned  as  a satirist  and  an  amatory 
poet.  In  1704,  after  twenty-seven  years  of  silence,  he  again 
appeared  as  an  author.  He  put  forth  a large  folio  of  mis- 
cellaneous verses,  which,  we  believe,  has  never  been  re* 
printed.  Some  of  these  pieces  had  probably  circulated 
through  the  town  in  manuscript.  For,  before  the  volume 
appeared,  the  critics  at  the  coffee-houses  very  confidently 
predicted  that  it  would  be  utterly  worthless,  and  were  in 
consequence  bitterly  reviled  by  the  poet  in  an  ill-written, 
foolish,  and  egotistical  preface.  The  book  amply  vindicated 
the  most  unfavorable  prophecies  that  had  been  hazarded. 
The  style  and  versification  are  beneath  criticism  ; the  morals 
are  those  of  Rochester.  For  Rochester,  indeed,  there  was 


522  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

some  excuse.  When  his  offences  against  decorum  were 
committed,  lie  was  a very  young  man,  misled  by  a prevailing 
fashion.  Wycherley  was  sixty-four.  He  had  long  outlived 
the  times  when  libertinism  was  regarded  as  essential  to  the 
character. of  a wit  and  a gentleman.  Most  of  the  rising 
poets,  Addison,  for  example,  John  Phillips,  and  Rowe,  were 
studious  of  decency.  We  can  hardly  conceive  anything 
more  miserable  than  the  figure  which  the  ribald  old  man 
makes  in  the  midst  of  so  many  sober  and  well-conducted 
youths. 

In  the  very  year  in  which  this  bulky  volume  of  obscene 
doggerel  was  published,  Wycherley  formed  an  acquaintance 
of  a very  singular  kind.  A little,  pale,  crooked,  sickly, 
bright-eyed  urchin,  just  turned  of  sixteen,  had  written  some 
copies  of  verses  in  which  discerning  judges  could  detect  the 
promise  of  future  eminence.  There  was,  indeed,  as  yet 
nothing  very  striking  or  original  in  the  conceptions  of  the 
young  poet.  But  he  was  already  skilled  in  the  art  of  metri- 
cal composition.  His  diction  and  his  music  were  not  those 
of  the  great  old  masters ; but  that  which  his  ablest  contem- 
poraries were  laboring  to  do,  he  already  did  best.  His  style 
was  not  richly  poetical ; but  it  was  always  neat,  compact, 
and  pointed.  His  verse  wanted  variety  of  pause,  of  swell, 
and  of  cadence,  but  never  grated  harshly  on  the  ear,  or  dis- 
appointed it  by  a feeble  close.  The  youth  was  already  free 
of  the  company  of  wits,  and  was  greatly  elated  at  being 
introduced  to  the  author  of  the  Plain  Dealer  and  the  Coun- 
try Wife. 

It  is  curious  to  trace  the  history  of  the  intercourse  which 
took  place  between  Wycherley  and  Pope,  between  the  rep- 
resentative of  the  age  that  was  going  out,  and  the  repre- 
sentative of  the  age  that  was  coming  in,  between  the  friend  of 
Rochester  and  Buckingham,  and  the  friend  of  Lyttelton  and 
Mansfield.  At  first  the  boy  was  enchanted  by  the  kindness 
and  condescension  of  so  eminent  a writer,  haunted  his  door, 
and  followed  him  about  like  a spaniel  from  coffee-house  to 
coffee-house.  Letters  full  of  affection,  humility,  and  fulsome 
flattery  were  interchanged  between  the  friends.  But  the 
first  ardor  of  affection  could  not  last.  Pope,  though  at  no 
time  scrupulously  delicate  in  his  writings  or  fastidious  as  to 
the  morals  of  his  associates,  was  shocked  by  the  indecency 
of  a rake  who,  at  seventy,  was  still  the  representative  of 
the  monstrous  profligacy  of  the  Restoration.  As  the  youth 
grew  older,  as  his  mind  exjjanded  and  his  fame  rose,  ho 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


528 


appreciated  both  himself  and  Wycherley  more  correctly. 
He  felt  a just  contempt  for  the  old  gentleman's  verses,  and 
was  at  no  great  pains  to  conceal  his  opinion.  Wycherley,  on 
the  other  hand,  though  blinded  by  self-love  to  the  imperfec- 
tions of  what  he  called  his  poetry,  could  not  but  see  that  there 
was  an  immense  difference  between  his  young  companion’s 
rhymes  and  his  own.  He  was  divided  between  two  feelings, 
lie  wished  to  have  the  assistance  of  so  skilful  a hand  to 
polish  his  lines  ; and  yet  he  shrank  from  the  humiliation  of 
being  beholden  for  literary  assistance  to  a lad  who  might 
have  been  his  grandson.  Pope  was  willing  to  give  assist- 
ance, but  was  by  no  means  disposed  to  give  assistance  and 
flattery  too.  lie  took  the  trouble  to  retouch  whole  roams 
of  feeble  stumbling  verses,  and  inserted  many  vigorous  lines 
which  the  least  skilful  reader  will  distinguish  in  an  instant. 
But  he  thought  that  by  these  services  he  acquired  a right  to 
express  himself  in  terms  which  would  not,  under  ordinary 
circumstances,  become  one  who  was  addressing  a man  of  four 
times  his  age.  In  one  letter  he  tells  Wycherley  that  “ the 
worst  pieces  are  such  as,  to  render  them  very  good,  would 
require  almost  the  entire  new  writing  of  them.”  In  another, 
he  gives  the  following  account  of  his  corrections : “ Though 
the  whole  be  as  short  again  as  at  first,  there  is  not  one 
thought  omitted  but  what  is  a repetition  of  something  in 
your  first  volume,  or  in  this  very  paper ; and  the  versifica- 
tion throughout  is,  I believe,  such  as  nobody  can  be  shocked 
at.  The  repeated  permission  you  give  me  of  dealing  freely 
with  you,  will,  I hope,  excuse  what  I have  done ; for,  if  I 
have  not  spared  you  when  I thought  severity  would  do  you 
a kindness,  I have  not  mangled  you  where  I thought  there 
was  no  absolute  need  of  amputation.”  Wycherley  continued 
to  return  thanks  for  all  this  hacking  and  hewing,  which  was, 
indeed,  of  inestimable  service  to  his  compositions.  But 
at  last  his  thanks  began  to  sound  very  like  reproaches. 
In  private,  he  is  said  to  have  described  Pope  as  a person 
who  could  not  cut  out  a suit,  but  who  had  some  skill  in 
turning  old  coats.  In  his  letters  to  Pope,  while  he  acknowl- 
edged that  the  versification  of  the  poems  had  been  greatly 
improved,  he  spoke  of  the  whole  art  of  versification  with 
scorn,  and  sneered  at  those  who  preferred  sound  to  sense. 
Pope  revenged  himself  for  this  outbreak  of  spleen  by  return 
of  post.  He  had  in  his  hands  a volume  of  Wycherley’s 
rhymes,  and  he  wrote  to  say  that  this  volume  was  so  full  of 
faults  that  he  could  not  correct  it  without  completely  de- 


524  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wkiItnos. 

facing  the  manuscript.  “ I am,”  he  said,  “ equally  afraid  ol 
sparing  you,  and  of  offending  you  by  too  impudent  a correc- 
tion.” This  was  more  than  flesh  and  blood  could  bear, 
Wycherley  reclaimed  his  papers,  in  a letter  in  which  resent- 
ment shows  itself  plainly  through  the  thin  disguise  of 
civility.  Pope,  glad  to  be  rid  of  a troublesome  and  inglori- 
ous task,  sent  back  the  deposit,  and,  by  way  of  a parting 
courtesy,  advised  the  old  man  to  turn  his  poetry  into  prose, 
and  assured  him  that  the  public  would  like  thoughts  much 
better  without  his  versification.  Thus  ended  this  memor- 
able correspondence. 

Wycherley  lived  some  years  after  the,  termination  of  the 
strange  friendship  which  we  have  described.  The  last 
scene  of  his  life  was,  perhaps,  the  most  scandalous.  Ten 
days  before  his  death,  at  seventy-five,  he  married  a young 
girl,  merely  in  order  to  injure  his  nephew,  an  act  which 
proves  that  neither  years,  nor  adversity,  nor  what  he  called 
his  philosophy,  nor  either  of  the  religions  which  he  had  at 
different  times  professed,  had  taught  him  the  rudiments  of 
morality.  He  died  in  December,  1715,  and  lies  in  the  vault 
under  the  church  of  St.  Paul  in  Covent-Garden. 

His  bride  soon  after  married  a Captain  Shrimpton,  who 
thus  became  possessed  of  a large  collection  of  manuscripts. 
These  were  sold  to  a bookseller.  They  were  so  full  of  era- 
sures and  interlineations  that  no  printer  could  decipher  them. 
It  was  necessary  to  call  in  the  aid  of  a professed  critic ; and 
Theobald,  the  editor  of  Sliakspeare,  and  the  hero  of  the 
first  Dunciad,  was  employed  to  ascertain  the  true  reading. 
In  this  way  a volume  of  miscellanies  in  verse  and  prose  was 
got  up  for  the  market.  The  collection  derives  all  its  value 
from  the  traces  of  Pope’s  hand,  which  are  everywhere  dis- 
cernible. 

Of  the  moral  character  of  Wycherley  it  can  hardly  be 
necessary  for  us  to  say  more.  His  fame  as  a writer  rests 
wholly  on  his  comedies,  and  chiefly  on  the  last  two.  Even 
us  a comic  writer,  he  was  neither  of  the  best  school,  nor 
highest  in  his  school.  He  was  in  truth  a worse  Congreve. 
II is  chief  merit,  like  Congreve’s,  lies  in  the  style  of  his  dia- 
logue. But  the  wit  which  lights  up  the  Plain  Dealer  and 
the  Country  Wife  is  pale  and  flickering,  when  compared 
with  the  gorgeous  blaze  which  dazzles  us  almost  to  blind- 
ness in  Love  for  Love  and  the  Way  of  the  World.  Like 
Congreve,  and,  indeed,  even  more  than  Congreve,  Wycher- 
ley is  ready  to  sacrifice  dramatic  propriety  to  the  liveliness 


migii  nuNt. 


52S 


of  his  dialogue.  The  poet  speaks  out  of  the  mouths  of  all 
his  dunces  and  coxcombs,  and  makes  them  describe  them- 
selves with  a good  sense  and  acuteness  which  puts  them  on 
a level  with  the  wits  and  heroes.  We  will  give  two  in- 
stances, the  first  which  occur  to  us,  from  the  Country  Wife. 
There  are  in  the  world  fools  who  find  the  society  of  old 
friends  insipid,  and  who  are  always  running  after  new  com- 
panions. Such  a character  is  a fair  subject  for  comedy. 
But  nothing  can  be  more  absurd  than  to  introduce  a man  of 
this  sort  saying  to  his  comrade,  “ I can  deny  you  nothing : 
for  though  I have  known  thee  a great  while,  never  go  if  I 
do  not  love  thee  as  well  as  a new  acquaintance.”  That 
town  wits,  again,  have  always  been  rather  a heartless  class, 
is  true.  But  none  of  them,  w’e  will  answer  for  it,  ever  said 
to  a young  lady  to  whom  he  was  making  love,  “ We  wits 
rail  and  make  love  often,  but  to  show  our  parts  : as  we  have 
no  affections,  so  we  have  no  malice.” 

Wycherley’s  plays  are  said  to  have  been  the  produce  of 
long  and  patient  labor.  The  epithet  of  “ slow  ” was  early 
given  to  him  by  Rochester,  and  was  frequently  repeated. 
In  truth  his  mind,  unless  we  are  greatly  mistaken,  was  natur- 
ally a very  meagre  soil,  and  was  forced  only  by  great  labor 
and  outlay  to  bear  fruit,  which,  after  all,  was  not  of  the 
highest  flavor.  He  has  scarcely  more  claim  to  originality 
than  Terence.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  there  is  hardly 
anything  of  the  least  value  in  his  plays  of  which  the  hint  is 
not  to  be  found  elsewhere.  The  best  scenes  in  the  Gentle- 
man Dancing  Master  were  suggested  by  Calderon’s  Maestro 
de  Danzar , not  by  any  means  one  of  the  happiest  comedies 
of  the  great  Castilian  poet.  The  Country  Wife  is  borrowed 
from  the  E'cole  des  Maris  and  the  E'cole  des  Femmes . 
The  groundwork  of  the  Plain  Dealer  is  taken  from  the  Mis- 
anthrope of  Moliere.  One  whole  scene  is  almost  translated 
from  the  Critique  de  V E'eole  des  Femmes . Fidelia  is  Shak- 
speare’s  Viola  stolen,  and  marred  in  the  stealing;  and  the 
Widow  Blackacre,  beyond  comparison  Wycherley’s  best 
comic  character,  is  the  Countess  in  Racine’s  Plaideurs , talk- 
ing the  jargon  of  English  instead  of  that  of  the  French  chicane. 

The  only  thing  original  about  Wycherley,  the  only  thing 
which  he  could  furnish  from  Ills  own  mind  in  inexhaustible 
abundance,  was  profligacy.  It  is  curious  to  observe  how 
everything  that  he  touched,  however  pure  and  noble,  took 
in  an  instant  the  color  of  his  own  mind.  Compare  +he 
E'cole  des  Femmes  with  the  Country  Wife.  Agnes  is  a 


626  MACAULAY*S  MISCELLANEOUS 

simple  and  amiable  girl,  whose  heart  is  indeed  full  of  love* 
but  of  love  sanctioned  by  honor,  morality,  and  religion. 
Her  natural  talents  are  great.  They  have  been  hidden,  and, 
as  it  might  appear,  destroyed  by  an  education  elaborately 
bad.  But  they  are  called  forth  into  full  energy  by  a virtu- 
ous passion.  Her  lover,  while  he  a'dorcs  her  beauty,  is  too 
honest  a man  to  abuse  the  confiding  tenderness  of  a creature 
so  charming  and  inexperienced.  Wycherley  takes  this  plot 
into  his  hands ; and  forthwith  this  sweet  and  graceful  court* 
ship  becomes  a licentious  intrigue  of  the  lowest  and  least 
sentimental  kind,  between  an  impudent  London  rake  and 
the  idiot  wife  of  a country  squire.  We  will  not  go  into  de- 
tails. In  truth,  Wycherley’s  indecency  is  protected  against 
the  critics  as  a skunk  is  protected  against  the  hunters.  It 
is  safe,  because  it  is  too  filthy  to  handle,  and  too  noisome 
even  to  approach. 

It  is  the  same  with  the  Plain  Dealer.  IIow  careful  has 
Shakspeare  been  in  Twelfth  Night  to  preserve  the  dignity 
and  delicacy  of  Viola  under  her  disguise ! Even  when 
wearing  a page’s  doublet  and  hose,  she  is  never  mixed  up 
with  any  transaction  which  the  most  fastidious  mind  could 
regard  as  leaving  a stain  on  her.  She  is  employed  by  the 
Duke  on  an  embassy  of  love  to  Olivia,  but  on  an  embassy  of 
the  most  honorable  kind.  Wycherley  borrows  Viola ; and 
Viola  forthwith  becomes  a pandar  of  the  basest  sort.  But 
the  character  of  Manly  is  the  best  illustration  of  our  mean- 
ing. Moliere  exhibited  in  his  misanthrope  a pure  and  noble 
mind,  which  had  been  sorely  vexed  by  the  sight  of  perfidy 
and  malevolence,  disguised  under  the  forms  of  politeness. 
As  every  extreme  naturally  generates  its  contrary,  Alceste 
adopts  a standard  of  good  and  evil  directly  opposed  to  that 
of  the  society  which  surrounds  him.  Courtesy  seems  to 
have  a vice ; and  those  stern  virtues  which  are  neglected  by 
the  fops  and  coquettes  of  Paris  become  too  exclusively  the 
objects  of  his  veneration.  lie  is  often  to  blame  ; he  is  often 
ridiculous ; but  he  is  always  a good  man ; and  the  feeling 
which  he  inspires  is  regret  that  a person  so  estimable  should 
be  so  unamiable.  Wycherley  borrowed  Alceste,  and  turned 
him, — we  quote  the  words  of  so  lenient  a critic  as  Mr.  Leigh 
Hunt, — into  “ a ferocious  sensualist,  who  believed  himself 
as  great  a rascal  as  he  thought  everybody  else.”  The  surli- 
ness of  Moliere’s  hero  is  copied  and  caricatured.  But  the 
most  nauseous  libertinism  and  the  most  dastardly  fraud 
are  substituted  for  the  purity  and  integrity  of  the  original. 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


527 


And,  to  make  the  whole  complete,  Wycherley  does  not 
seem  to  have  been  aware  that  he  was  not  drawing  the 
portrait  of  an  eminently  honest  man.  So  depraved  was 
his  moral  taste  that,  while  he  firmly  believed  that  he  was 
producing  a picture  of  virtue  too  exalted  for  the  commerce 
of  this  world,  he  was  really  delineating  the  greatest  rascal 
that  is  to  be  found,  even  in  his  own  writings. 

We  pass  a very  severe  censure  on  Wycherley,  when  we 
say  that  it  is  a relief  to  turn  from  him  to  Congreve.  Con- 
greve’s writings,  indeed,  are  by  no  means  pure  ; nor  was  he, 
as  far  as  we  are  able  to  judge,  a warm-hearted  or  high- 
minded  man.  Yet,  in  coming  to  him,  we  feel  that  the  worst 
is  over,  that  we  are  one  remove  further  from  the  Resto- 
ration, that  we  are  past  the  Nadir  of  national  taste  and 
morality. 

William  Congee ve  was  born  in  1670,  at  Bardsey,  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Leeds.  His  father,  a younger  son  of  a 
very  ancient  Staffordshire  family,  had  distinguished  him- 
self among  the  cavaliers  in  the  civil  war,  was  set  down  after 
the  Restoration  for  the  Order  of  the  Royal  Oak,  and  subse- 
quently settled  in  Ireland,  under  the  patronage  of  the  Earl 
of  Burlington. 

Congreve  passed  his  childhood  and  youth  in  Ireland. 
He  was  sent  to  school  at  Kilkenny,  and  thence  went  to  the 
University  of  Dublin.  His  learning  does  great  honor  to  his 
instructors.  From  his  writings  it  appears,  not  only  that  he 
was  well  acquainted  with  Latin  literature,  but  that  his 
knowledge  of  the  Greek  poets  was  such  as  was  not,  in  his 
time,  common  even  in  a college. 

When  he  had  completed  his  academical  studies  he  was 
sent  to  London  to  study  the  law,  and  was  entered  of  the 
Middle  Temple.  He  troubled  himself,  however,  very  little 
about  pleading  or  conveyancing,  and  gave  himself  up  to 
literature  and  society.  Two  kinds  of  ambition  early  took 
possession  of  his  mind,  and  often  pulled  it  in  opposite  direc- 
tions. He  was  conscious  of  great  fertility  of  thought  and 
power  of  ingenious  combination.  His  lively  conversation, 
his  polished  manners,  and  his  highly  respectable  connections, 
had  obtained  for  him  ready  access  to  the  best  company. 
Lie  longed  to  be  a great  writer.  He  longed  to  be  a man  of 
fashion.  Either  object  was  within  his  reach,  but  could  he 
secure  both?  Was  there  not  something  vulgar  in  letters, 
something  inconsistent  with  the  easy  apathetic  graces  of  a 
man  of  the  mode  ? Was  it  aristocratical  to  be  confounded 


628  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

with  creatures  wlio  lived  in  the  cocklofts  of  Grub  Street,  to 
bargain  with  publishers,  to  hurry  printers’  devils  and  be 
hurried  by  them,  to  squabble  with  managers,  to  be  applauded 
or  hissed  by  pit,  boxes,  and  galleries  ? Could  he  forego  the 
renown  of  being  the  first  wit  of  his  age  ? Could  he  attain 
that  renown  without  sullying  what  he  valued  quite  as  much, 
his  character  for  gentility  ? The  history  of  liis  life  is  the 
history  of  a conflict  between  these  two  impulses.  In  his 
youth  the  desire  of  literary  fame  had  the  mastery ; but  soon 
the  meaner  ambition  overpowered  the  higher,  and  obtained 
supreme  dominion  over  his  mind. 

His  first  work,  a novel  of  no  great  value,  he  published 
under  the  assumed  name  of  Cleophil.  His  second  was 
the  Old  Bachelor,  acted  in  1698,  a play  inferior  indeed 
to  his  other  comedies,  but,  in  its  own  line,  inferior  to  them 
alone.  The  plot  is  equally  destitute  of  interest  and  of 
probability.  The  characters  are  either  not  distinguishable, 
or  are  distinguished  only  by  peculiarities  of  the  most  glar- 
ing kind.  But  the  dialogue  is  resplendent  with  wit  and 
eloquence,  which  indeed  are  so  abundant  that  the  fool  comes 
in  for  an  ample  share,  and  yet  preserves  a certain  colloquial 
air,  a certain  indescribable  ease,  of  which  Wycherley  had 
given  no  example,  and  which  Sheridan  in  vain  attempted  to 
imitate.  The  author,  divided  between  pride  and  shame, 
pride  at  having  written  a good  play,  and  shame  at  having 
done  an  ungentlemanlike  thing,  pretended  that  he  had 
merely  scribbled  a few  scenes  for  his  own  amusement,  and 
affected  to  yield  unwillingly  to  the  importunities  of  those 
who  pressed  him  to  try  his  fortune  on  the  stage.  The  Old 
Bachelor  was  seen  in  manuscript  by  Dryden,  one  of  whose 
best  qualities  was  a hearty  and  generous  admiration  for  the 
talents  of  others.  He  declared  that  he  had  never  read  such 
a first  play,  and  lent  his  services  to  bring  it  into  a form  fit 
for  representation.  Nothing  was  wanted  to  the  success  of 
the  piece.  It  was  so  cast  as  to  bring  into  play  all  the  comic 
talent,  and  to  exhibit  on  the  boards  in  one  view  all  the 
beauty,  which  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  then  the  only  theatre  in 
London,  could  assembler  The  result  was  a complete  tri- 
umph ; and  the  author  was  gratified  with  rewards  more 
substantial  than  the  applause  of  the  pit.  Montagu,  then  a 
lord  of  the  treasury*  immediately  gave  him  a place,  and,  in 
a shoft  time,  added  the  reversion  of  another  place  of  much 
greater  value,  which,  however,  become  vacant  till 

many  years  had  elapsed. 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


529 


In  1694,  Congreve  brought  out  the  Double  Dealer,  a 
comedy  in  which  all  the  powers  which  had  produced  the 
Old  Bachelor  showed  themselves,  matured  by  time  and  im- 
proved by  exercise.  But  the  audience  was  shocked  by  the 
characters  of  Maskwell  and  Lady  Touchwood.  And,  indeed, 
there  is  something  strangely  revolting  in  the  way  in  which 
a group  that  seems  to  belong  to  the  house  of  Laius  or  oi 
Pelops  is  introduced  into  the  midst  of  the  Brisks,  Froths, 
Carlesses,  and  Ply  ants.  The  play  was  unfavorably  received. 
Yet,  if  the  praise  of  distinguished  men  could  compensate  an 
author  for  the  disapprobation  of  the  multitude,  Congreve 
had  no  reason  to  repine.  Dryden,  in  one  of  the  most  in- 
genious, magnificent,  and  pathetic  pieces  that  he  ever  wrote, 
extolled  the  author  of  the  Double  Dealer  in  terms  which 
now  appear  extravagantly  hyperbolical.  Till  Congreve 
came  forth, — so  ran  this  exquisite  flattery, — the  superiority 
of  the  poets  who  preceded  the  civil  wars  was  acknowl- 
edged. 

Theirs  was  the  giant  race  before  the  flood.’* 

Since  the  return  of  the  Royal  house,  much  art  and  ability 
had  been  exerted,  but  the  old  masters  had  been  still  un- 
rivalled. 

“ Our  builders  were  with  want  of  genius  curst, 

The  second  temple  was  not  like  the  first.’’ 

At  length  a writer  had  arisen  who,  just  emerging  from  boy- 
hood, had  surpassed  the  authors  of  the  Knight  of  the  Burning 
Pestle  and  of  the  Silent  Woman,  and  who  had  only  one  rival 
left  to  contend  with. 

“ Heaven  that  but  once  was  prodigal  before, 

To  Shakspeare  gave  as  much,  she  could  not  give  him  more.’* 

Some  lines  near  the  end  of  the  poem  are  singularly  grave 
and  touching,  and  sank  deep  into  the  heart  of  Congreve. 

“ Already  am  I worn  with  cares  and  age, 

And  just  abandoning  the  ungrateful  stage  ; 

But  you,  whom  every  muse  and  grace  adorn 
Whom  I foresee  to  better  fortune  born, 

Be  kind  to  my  remains  ; and,  oh,  defend 
Agaiust  your  judgment  your  departed  friend. 

Let  not  the  insulting  foe  my  fame  pursue, 

But  guard  those  laurels  which  descend  to  you.*? 

The  crowd,  as  usual,  gradually  came  over  to  the  opinion 
of  the  men  of  note  ; and  the  Double  Dealer  was  before  long 
quite  as  much  admired,  though  perhaps  never  so  much  liked, 
as  the  Old  Bachelor 
Vol.  XL— 34 


630 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


In  1695  appeared  Love  for  Love,  superior  both  in  wit 
and  in  scenic  effect  to  either  of  the  preceding  plays.  It 
was  performed  at  a new  theatre  which  Betterton  and  some 
other  actors,  disgusted  by  the  treatment  which  they  had  re- 
ceived in  Drury-Lane,  had  just  opened  in  a tennis-court 
near  Lincoln’s  Inn.  Scarcely  any  comedy  within  the  mem- 
ory of  the  oldest  man  had  been  equally  successful.  The 
actors  were  so  elated  that  they  gave  Congreve  a share  in 
their  theatre ; and  he  promised  in  return  to  furnish  them 
with  a play  every  year,  if  his  health  would  permit.  Two 
years  passed,  however,  before  he  produced  the  “ Mourning 
Bride,”  a play  which,  paltry  as  it  is  when  compared,  we  do 
not  say,  with  Lear  and  Macbeth,  but  with  the  best  dramas 
of  Massinger  and  Ford,  stands  very  high  among  the  trag- 
edies of  the  age  in  which  it  was  written.  To  find  anything 
so  good  we  must  go  twelve  years  back  to  Venice  Preserved, 
or  six  years  forward  to  the  Fair  Penitent.  The  noble  pass- 
age which  Johnson,  both  in  writing  and  in  conversation, 
extolled  above  any  other  in  the  English  drama,  lias  suffered 
greatly  in  the  public  estimation  from  the  extravagance  of 
his  praise.  Had  he  contented  himself  with  saying  that  it 
was  finer  than  anything  in  the  tragedies  of  Dryden,  Otway, 
Lee,  Rowe,  Southern,  Hughes,  and  Addison,  than  anything, 
in  short,  that  had  been  written  for  the  stage  since  the  days 
of  Charles  the  First,  he  would  not  have  been  in  the  "wrong. 

The  success  of  the  Mourning  Bride  was  even  greater 
than  that  of  Love  for  Love.  Congreve  was  now  allowed  to 
be  the  first  tragic  as  well  as  the  first  comic  dramatist  of 
his  time;  and  all  this  at  twenty-seven.  We  believe  that  no 
English  writer  except  Lord  Byron  has,  at  so  early  an  age, 
stood  so  high  in  the  estimation  of  his  contemporaries. 

At  this  time  took  place  an  event  which  deserves,  in  our 
opinion,  a very  different  sort  of  notice  from  that  which  has 
has  been  bestowed  on  it  by  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt.  The  nation 
had  now  nearly  recovered  from  the  demoralizing  effect  of 
the  Puritan  austerity.  The  gloomy  follies  of  the  reign  of 
the  Saints  were  but  faintly  remembered.  The  evils  pro- 
duced by  profaneness  and  debauchery  were  recent  and 
glaring.  The  Court,  since  the  Revolution,  had  ceased  to 
patronize  licentiousness.  Mary  was  strictly  pious  ; and  the 
vices  of  the  cold,  stern,  and  silent  William,  wrere  not  ob- 
truded on  the  public  eye.  Discountenanced  by  the  govern- 
ment, and  falling  in  the  favor  of  the  people,  the  profligacy 
of  the  Restoration  still  maintained  its  ground  in  some  parte 


tiEIGH  HtTNT. 


581 


of  society.  Its  strongholds  were  the  places  where  men  of 
wit  and  fashion  congregated,  and  above  all,  the  theatres. 
At  this  conjuncture  arose  a great  reformer  whom,  widely  as 
we  differ  from  him  in  many  important  points,  we  can  never 
mention  without  respect. 

Jeremy  Collier  was  a clergyman  of  the  Church  of 
England,  bred  at  Cambridge.  His  talents  and  attainments 
were  such  as  might  have  been  expected  to  raise  him  to  the 
highest  honors  of  his  profession.  He  had  an  extensive 
knowledge  of  books  ; yet  he  had  mingled  much  with  polite 
society,  and  is  said  not  to  have  wanted  either  grace  or  viva- 
city in  conversation.  There  were  few  branches  of  literature 
to  which  he  had  not  paid  some  attention.  But  ecclesiastical 
antiquity  was  his  favorite  study.  In  religious  opinions  he 
belonged  to  that  section  of  the  Church  of  England  which 
lies  furthest  from  Geneva  and  nearest  to  Home.  His  notions 
touching  Episcopal  government,  holy  orders,  the  efficacy  of 
the  sacraments,  the  authority  of  the  Fathers,  the  guilt  of 
schism,  the  importance  of  vestments,  ceremonies,  and  solemn 
days,  differed  little  from  those  which  are  now  held  by  Dr. 
Pusey  and  Mr.  Newman.  Towards  the  close  of  his  life, 
indeed,  Collier  took  some  steps  which  brought  him  still 
nearer  to  Popery,  mixed  water  with  the  wine  in  the  Eucha- 
rist, made  the  sign  of  the  cross  in  confirmation,  employed 
oil  in  the  visitation  of  the  sick,  and  offered  up  prayers  for 
the  dead.  His  politics  were  of  a piece  with  his  divinity.  He 
was  a Tory  of  the  highest  sort,  such  as  in  the  cant  of  his  age 
was  called  a Tantivy.  Not  even  the  persecution  of  the 
bishops  and  the  spoliation  of  the  universities  could  shake 
his  steady  loyalty.  While  the  convention  was  sitting,  he 
wrote  with  vehemence  in  defence  of  the  fugitive  king,  and 
was  in  consequence  arrested.  But  his  dauntless  spirit  was 
not  to  be  so  tamed.  He  refused  to  take  the  oaths,  renounced 
all  his  pref elements,  and,  in  a succession  of  pamphlets  writ- 
ten with  much  violence  and  with  some  ability,  attempted 
to  excite  the  nation  against  its  new  masters.  In  1692  he 
was  again  arrested  on  suspicion  of  having  been  concerned 
in  a treasonable  plot.  So  unbending  were  his  principles 
that  his  friends  could  hardly  persuade  him  to  let  them  bail 
him  ; and  he  afterwards  expressed  his  remorse  for  having 
been  induced  thus  to  acknowledge,  by  implication,  the 
authority  of  an  usurping  government.  He  was  soon  in 
trouble  again.  Sir  John  Friend  and  Sir  William  Parkins 
were  tried  and  convicted  of  high  treason  for  planning  the 


532  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

murder  of  King  William.  Collier  administered  spiritual 
consolation  to  them,  attended  them  to  Tyburn,  and,  just 
before  they  were  turned  off,  laid  his  hands  on  their  heads, 
and  by  the  authority  which  he  derived  from  Christ,  solemnly 
absolved  them.  This  scene  gave  indescribable  scandal. 
Tories  joined  with  Whigs  in  blaming  the  conduct  of  the 
daring  priest.  Some  acts,  it  was  said,  which  fall  under  the 
definition  of  treason  are  such  that  a good  man  may,  in 
troubled  times,  be  led  into  them  even  by  his  virtues.  It 
may  be  necessary  for  the  protection  of  society  to  punish 
such  a man.  But  even  in  punishing  him  we  consider  him 
as  legally  rather  than  morally  guilty,  and  hope  that  his  hon- 
est error,  though  it  cannot  be  pardoned  here,  will  not  be 
counted  to  him  for  sin  hereafter.  But  such  was  not  the 
case  of  Collier’s  penitents.  They  were  concerned  in  a plot 
for  waylaying  and  butchering,  in  an  hour  of  security,  one 
who,  whether  he  were  or  were  not  their  king,  was  at  all 
events  their  fellow-creature.  Whether  the  Jacobite  theory 
about  the  rights  of  governments  and  the  duties  of  subjects 
were  or  were  not  well  founded,  assassination  must  always 
be  considered  as  a great  crime.  It  is  condemned  even  by 
the  maxims  of  worldly  honor  and  morality.  Much  more 
must  it  be  an  object  of  abhorrence  to  the  pure  Spouse  of 
Christ.  The  Church  cannot  surely,  without  the  saddest  and  ’ 
most  mournful  forebodings,  see  one  of  her  children  who  has 
been  guilty  of  this  great  wickedness  pass  into  eternity  with- 
out any  sign  of  repentance.  That  these  traitors  had  given 
any  sign  of  repentance  was  not  alleged.  It  might  be  that 
they  had  privately  declared  their  contrition  ; and,  if  so,  \ 
the  minister  of  religion  might  be  justified  in  privately  as- 
suring them  of  the  Divine  forgiveness.  But  a public  remis- 
sion ought  to  have  been  preceded  by  a public  atonement. 
The  regret  of  these  men,  if  expressed  at  all,  had  been  ex- 
pressed in  secret.  The  hands  of  Collier  had  been  laid  on 
them  in  the  presence  of  thousands.  The  inference  which 
Ills  enemies  drew  from  his  conduct  was  that  he  did  not  con-  i 
sider  the  conspiracy  against  the  life  of  William  as  sinful.  ) 
But  this  inference  he  very  vehemently,  and,  we  doubt  not, 
very  sincerely  denied. 

The  storm  raged.  The  bishops  put  forth  a solemn  cen-  - | 
sure  of  the  absolution.  The  Attorney-General  brought  the 
matter  before  the  Court  of  King’s  Bench.  Collier  had  now 
made  up  his  mind  not  to  give  bail  for  his  appearance  before 
any  court  which  derived  its  authority  from  the  usurper,  ; 


tsiafl  huh?. 


583 


He  accordingly  absconded  and  was  outlawed.  He  survived 
these  events  about  thirty  years.  The  prosecution  was  not 
pressed;  and  he  was  soon  suffered  to  resume  his  literary 
pursuits  in  quiet.  At  a later  period,  many  attempts  were 
made  to  shake  his  perverse  integrity  by  offers  of  wealth  and 
dignity,  but  in  vain.  When  he  died,  towards  the  end  of 
the  reign  of  George  the  First,  he  was  still  under  the  ban  of 
the  law. 

We  shall  not  be  suspected  of  regarding  either  the  politics 
or  the  theology  of  Collier  with  partiality ; but  w~e  believe 
him  to  have  been  as  honest  and  courageous  a man  as 
ever  lived.  We  will  go  further,  and  say  that,  though  pas- 
sionate and  often  wrongheaded,  he  was  a singularly  fair 
controversialist,  candid,  generous,  too  high-spirited  to  take 
mean  advantages  even  in  the  most  exciting  disputes,  and 
pure  from  all  taint  of  personal  malevolence.  It  must  also 
be  admitted  that  his  opinions  on  ecclesiastical  and  j>olitical 
affairs,  though  in  themselves  absurd  and  pernicious,  emi- 
nently qualified  him  to  be  the  reformer  of  our  lighter  litera- 
ture. The  libertinism  of  the  press  and  of  the  stage  was,  as 
we  have  sakl,  the  effect  of  a reaction  against  the  Puritan 
strictness.  Profligacy  was,  like  the  oak  leaf  on  the  twenty- 
ninth  of  May,  the  badge  of  a cavalier  and  a high  churchman. 
Decency  was  associated  with  conventicles  and  calves’  heads. 
Grave  prelates  were  too  much  disposed  to  wink  at  the  ex- 
cesses of  a body  of  zealous  and  able  allies  who  covered 
Roundheads  and  Presbyterians  with  ridicule.  If  a Whig 
raised  his  voice  against  the  impiety  and  licentiousness  of 
the  fashionable  writers,  his  mouth  was  instantly  stopped  by 
the  retort:  You  are  one  of  those  who  groan  at  a little  quo- 
tation from  Scripture,  and  raise  estates  out  of  the  plunder 
of  the  Church,  who  shudder  at  a double  entendre , and  chop 
off  the  heads  of  kings.  A Baxter,  a Burnet,  even  a Tillot- 
son,  would  have  done  little  to  purify  our  literature.  But 
when  a man  fanatical  in  the  cause  of  Episcopacy  and  actually 
under  outlawry  for  his  attachment  to  hereditary  right,  came 
forward  as  the  champion  of  decency,  the  battle  was  already 
half  won. 

In  1698,  Collier  published  his  Short  View  of  the  Profane- 
ness and  Immorality  of  the  English  Stage,  a book  which 
threw  the  whole  literary  world  into  commotion,  but  which 
is  now  much  less  read  than  it  deserves.  The  faults  of  the 
work,  indeed,  are  neither  few  nor  small.  The  dissertations 
on  the  Greek  and  Latin  drama  do  not  at  all  help  the  argu 


534  MACATTLAY*8  MISCELLANEOUS  WETTINGS. 

ment,  and,  whatever  may  have  been  thought  of  them  by  the 
generation  which  fancied  that  Christ  Church  had  refuted 
Bentley,  are  such  as,  in  the  present  day,  a scholar  of  very 
humble  pretensions  may  venture  to  pronounce  boyish,  or 
rather  babyish.  The  censures  are  not  sufficiently  discrimi- 
nating. The  authors  whom  Collier  accused  had  been  guilty 
of  such  gross  sins  against  decency,  that  he  was  certain  to 
weaken  instead  of  strengthening  his  case,  by  introducing 
into  his  charge  against  them  any  matter  about  which  there 
could  be  the  smallest  dispute.  He  was,  however,  so  injudi- 
cious as  to  place  among  the  outrageous  offences  which  he 
justly  arraigned,  some  things  which  are  really  quite  in- 
nocent, and  some  slight  instances  of  levity  which,  though 
not  perhaps  strictly  correct,  could  easily  be  paralleled  from 
the  works  of  writers  who  had  rendered  great  services  to 
morality  and  religion.  Thus  he  blames  Congreve,  the  num- 
ber and  gravity  of  whose  real  transgressions  made  it  quite 
unnecessary  to  tax  him  with  any  that  were  not  real,  for 
using  the  words  “martyr”  and  “inspiration”  in  a light 
sense ; as  if  an  archbishop  might  not  say  that  a speech  was 
inspired  by  claret,  or  that  an  alderman  was  a martyr  to  a 
gout.  Sometimes,  again,  Collier  does  not  sufficiently  dis- 
tinguish between  the  dramatist  and  the  persons  of  the  drama. 
Thus  he  blames  Y anbrugh  for  putting  into  Lord  Fopping- 
ton’s  mouth  some  contemptuous  expressions  respecting  the 
Church  service ; though  it  is  obvious  that  Vanbrugh  could 
not  better  express  reverence  than,  by  making  Lord  Fopping- 
ton  express  contempt.  There  is  also  throughout  the  Short 
View  too  strong  a display  of  professional  feeling.  Collier 
is  not  content  with  claiming  for  his  order  an  immunity  from 
indiscriminate  scurrility ; he  will  not  allow  that,  in  any  case, 
any  word  o*r  act  of  a divine  can  be  a proper  subject  for  ridi- 
cule. Nor  does  he  confine  this  benefit  of  clergy  to  the  min- 
isters of  the  established  Church.  lie  extends  the  privilege 
to  Catholic  priests,  and,  what  in  him  is  more  surprising,  to 
Dissenting  preachers.  Tins,  however,  is  a mere  trifle. 
Imaums,  Brahmins,  priests  of  Jupiter,  priests  of  Baal,  are  all 
to  be  held  sacred.  Dryden  is  blamed  for  making  the  Mufti 
in  Don  Sebastian  talk  nonsense.  Lee  is  called  to  a severe 
account  for  his  incivility  to  Tiresias.  But  the  most  curious 
passage  is  that  in  which  Collier  resents  some  uncivil  reflec- 
tions thrown  by  Cassandra,  in  Dryden’s  Cleomenes,  on  the 
calf  Apis  and  his  hierophants.  The  words  “ grass-eating, 
foddered  god,”  words  which  really  are  much  in  the  style  oi 


LEIGH  HUNT, 


535 


several  passages  in  the  Old  Testament,  give  as  much  offence 
to  this  Christian  divine  as  they  could  have  given  to  the 
priests  of  Memphis. 

But,  when  all  deductions  have  been  made,  great  merit 
must  be  allowed  to  this  work.  There  is  hardly  any  book  of 
that  time  from  which  it  would  be  possible  to  select  speci- 
mens of  writing  so  excellent  and  so  various.  To  compare 
Collier  with  Pascal  would  indeed  be  absurd.  Yet  we  hardly 
know  where,  except  in  the  Provincial  Letters,  we  can  find 
mirth  so  harmoniously  and  becomingly  blended  with  so- 
lemnity as  in  the  Short  View.  In  truth,  all  the  modes  of 
ridicule,  from  broad  fun  to  polished  and  antithetical  sarcasm, 
were  at  Collier’s  command.  On  the  other  hand,  he  was  com- 
plete master  of  the  rhetoric  of  honest  indignation.  We 
scarcely  know  any  volume  which  contains  so  many  bursts  of 
that  peculiar  eloquence  which  comes  from  the  heart  and  goes 
to  the  heart.  Indeed  the  spirit  of  the  book  is  truly  heroic. 
In  order  to  fairly  appreciate  it,  we  must  remember  the 
situation  in  which  the  writer  stood.  He  was  under  the 
frown  of  power.  His  name  was  already  a mark  for  the 
invectives  of  one  half  of  the  writers  of  the  age,  when,  in  the 
cause  of  good  taste,  good  sense,  and  good  morals,  he  gave 
battle  to  the  other  half.  Strong  as  his  political  prejudices 
Were,  he  seems  on  this  occasion  to  have  entirely  laid  them 
aside.  He  has  forgotten  that  he  is  a Jacobite,  and  re- 
members only  that  he  is  a citizen  and  a Christian.  Some  of 
his  sharpest  censures  are  directed  against  jjoetry  which  had 
been  hailed  with  delight  by  the  Tory  party,  and  had  inflicted 
a deep  wound  on  the  Whigs.  It  is  inspiriting  to  see  how 
gallantly  the  solitary  outlaw  advances  to  attack  enemies, 
formidable  separately,  and,  it  might  have  been  thought, 
irresistible  when  combined,  distributes  his  swashing  blows 
right  and  left  among  W ycherley,  Congreve,  and  V anbrugh, 
treads  the  wretched  D’Urfey  down  in  the  dirt  beneath  his 
feet,  and  strikes  with  all  his  strength  full  atf  the  towering 
crest  of  Dryden. 

The  effect  produced  by  the  Short  View  was  immense. 
The  nation  was  on  the  side  of  Collier.  But  it  could  not  be 
doubted  that,  in  the  great  host  which  he  had  defied,  some- 
champion  would  be  found  to  lift  the  gauntlet.  The  general 
belief  was  that  Dryden  would  take  the  field  ; and  all  the  wits 
anticipated  a sharp  contest  between  two  well-paired  com- 
batants. The  great  "poet  had  been  singled  out  in  the  most 
marked  manner.  It  was  well  known  that  he  was  deeply 


b36 


MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WHITINGS.  , 

hurt,  that  much  smaller  provocation  had  formerly  roused 
him  to  violent  resentment,  and  that  there  was  no  literary 
weapon,  offensive  or  defensive,  of  which  he  was  not  master. 
But  his  conscience  smote  him;  he  stood  abashed,  like  the 
fallen  archangel  at  the  rebuke  of  Zephon, — 

“ And  felt  how  awful  goodness  is,  and  saw 
Virtue  in  her  shape  how  lovely  ; saw  and  pined 
llis  loss.” 

At  a later  period  he  mentioned  the  Short  View  in  the  pref- 
ace to  liis  Fables.  lie  complained,  with  some  asperity,  of 
the  harshness  with  which  he  had  been  treated,  and  urged 
some  matters  in  mitigation.  But,  on  the  whole,  he  frankly 
acknowledged  that  he  had  been  justly  reproved.  “ If,”  said 
he,  “ Mr.  Collier  be  my  enemy,  let  him  triumph.  If  lie  be 
my  friend,  as  I have  given  him  no  personal  occasion  to  be 
otherwise,  he  will  be  glad  of  my  repentance.” 

It  would  have  been  wise  in  Congreve  to  follow  his  mas- 
ter’s example.  He  was  precisely  in  that  situation  in  which 
it  is  madness  to  attempt  a vindication  ; for  his  guilt  was  so 
clear,  that  no  address  or  eloquence  could  obtain  an  acquittal. 
On  the  other  hand,  there  were  in  liis  case  many  extenuating 
circumstances  which,  if  he  had  acknowledged  his  error  and 
promised  amendment,  would  have  procured  his  pardon. 
The  most  rigid  censor  could  not  but  make  great  allowances 
for  the  faults  into  which  so  young  a man  had  been  seduced 
by  evil  example,  by  the  luxuriance  of  a vigorous  fancy,  and 
by  the  inebriating  effect  of  popular  applause.  The  esteem, 
as  well  as  the  admiration,  of  the  public  was  still  within  his 
reach.  He  might  easily  have  effaced  all  memory  of  his 
transgressions,  and  have  shared  with  Addison  the  glory  of 
showing  that  the  most  brilliant  wit  maybe  the  ally  of  virtue 
But,  in  any  case,  prudence  should  have  restrained  him  from 
encountering  Collier.  The  nonjuror  was  a man  thoroughly 
fitted  by  nature,  education,  and  habit,  for  polemical  dispute. 
Congreve’s  mind,  though  a mind  of  no  common  fertility  and 
vigor,  was  of  a diffe  rented  ass.  No  man  understood  so  well 
the  art  of  polishing  epigrams  and  repartees  into  the  clearest 
effulgence,  and  setting  them  neatly  in  easy  and  familiar 
dialogue.  In  this  sort  of  jewellery  he  attained  to  a mastery 
unprecedented  and  inimitable.  But  he  was  altogether  rude 
in  the  art  of  controversy;  and  he  had  a cause  to  defend 
which  scarcely  any  art  could  have  rendered  victorious. 

The  event  was  such  as  might  have  been  foreseen.  Con- 
greve’s answer  was  a complete  failure,  He  was  angry,  oh- 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


537 


seure,  and  dull  Even  the  Green  Room  and  Will’s  Coffee- 
House  were  compelled  to  acknowledge  that  in  wit,  as  well 
as  in  argument,  the  parson  had  a decided  advantage  over  the 
poet.  Not  only  was  Congreve  unable  to  make  any  show  of 
a case  where  he  was  in  the  wrong;  but  he  succeeded  in  put 
ting  himself  completely  in  the  wrong  where  he  was  in  the 
right.  Collier  had  taxed  him  with  profaneness  for  calling  a 
clergyman  Mr.  Prig,  and  for  introducing  a coachman  named 
Jehu,  in  allusion  to  the  King  of  Israel,  who  was  known  at  a 
distance  by  his  furious  driving.  Had  there  been  nothing 
worse  in  the  Old  Bachelor  and  Double  Dealer,  Congreve 
might  pass  for  as  pure  a writer  as  Cowper  himself,  who,  in 
poems  revised  by  so  austere  a censor  as  John  Newton,  calls 
a fox-hunting  squire  Nimrod,  and  gives  to  a chaplain  the 
disrespectful  name  of  Smug.  Congreve  might  with  good 
effect  have  appealed  to  the  public  whether  it  might  not  be 
fairly  presumed  that,  when  such  frivolous  charges  were 
made,  there  were  no  very  serious  charges  to  make.  Instead 
of  doing  this,  he  pretended  that  he  meant  no  allusion  to  the 
Bible  by  the  name  of  Jehu,  and  no  reflection  by  the  name 
of  Prig.  Strange,  that  a man  of  such  parts  should,  in  order 
to  defend  himself  against  imputations  which  nobody  could 
regard  as  important,  tell  untruths  which  it  was  certain  that 
nobody  would  believe ! 

One  of  the  pleas  which  Congreve  set  up  for  himself  and 
his  brethren  was  that,  though  they  might  be  guilty  of  a little 
levity  here  and  there,  they  were  careful  to  inculcate  amoral, 
packed  close  into  two  or  three  lines,  at  the  end  of  every  play. 
Had  the  fact  been  as  he  stated  it,  the  defence  would  be 
worth  very  little.  For  no  man  acquainted  with  human  na- 
ture could  think  that  a sententious  couplet  would  undo  all 
the  mischief  that  five  profligate  acts  had  done.  But  it  would 
have  been  wise  in  Congreve  to  have  looked  again  at  his  own 
comedies  before  he  used  this  argument.  Collier  did  so  ; 
and  found  that  the  moral  of  the  Old  Bachelor,  the  grave 
apophthegm  which  is  to  be  a set-off  against  all  the  libertin- 
ism of  the  piece  is  contained  in  the  following  triplet : 

“ What  rugged  ways  attend  the  noon  of  life  ! 

Our  sun  declines,  and  with  what  anxious  strife, 

What  pain,  we  tug  that  galling  load — a wife.” 

“ Love  for  Love,”  says  Collier,  “ may  have  a somewhat 
better  farewell,  but  it  would  do  a man  little  service  should 
he  remember  it  to  his  dying  day  ; ” 


$>38  hacaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

“ The  miracle  to-day  is,  that  we  find 
A lover  true,  not  that  a woman’s  kind.** 

Collier’s  reply  was  severe  and  triumphant.  One  of  his 
repartees  we  will  quote,  not  as  a favorable  specimen  of  his 
manner,  but  because  it  was  called  forth  by  Congreve’s  char- 
acteristic affectation.  The  poet  spoke  of  the  Old  Bachelor 
as  a trifle  to  which  he  attached  no  value,  and  which  had 
become  public  by  a sort  of  accident.  “ I wrote  it,”  he  said, 
“ to  amuse  myself  in  a slow  recovery  from  a fit  of  sickness.” 
“ What  his  disease  was,”  replied  Collier,  “I  am  not  to  in- 
quire : but  it  must  be  a very  ill  one  to  be  worse  than  the 
remedy.” 

All  that  Congreve  gained  by  coming  forward  on  this  oc- 
casion was  that  he  completely  deprived  himself  of  the  ex- 
cuse which  he  might  with  justice  have  pleaded  for  his  early 
offences.  “ Why,”  asked  Collier,  “ should  the  man  laugh  at 
the  mischief  of  the  boy,  and  make  the  disorders  of  his  non- 
age his  own,  by  an  after  approbation  ? ” 

Congreve  was  not  Collier’s  only  opponent.  Vanbrugh, 
Dennis,  and  Settle  took  the  field.  And,  from  a passage  in 
a contemporary  satire,  we  are  inclined  to  think  that  among 
the  answers  to  the  Short  View  was  one  written,  or  supposed 
to  be  written,  by  Wycherley.  The  victory  remained  with 
Collier.  A great  and  rapid  reform  in  almost  all  the  depart- 
ments of  our  lighter  literature  was  the  effect  of  his  labors. 
A new  race  of  wits  and  poets  arose,  who  generally  treated 
with  reverence  the  great  ties  which  bind  society  together, 
and  whose  very  indecencies  were  decent  when  compared 
with  those  of  the  school  which  flourished  during  the  last 
forty  years  of  the  seventeenth  century. 

This  controversy  probably  prevented  Congreve  from  ful- 
filling the  engagements  into  which  he  had  entered  with  the 
actors.  It  was  not  till  1700  that  he  produced  the  Way  of 
the  World,  the  most  deeply  meditated  and  most  brilliantly 
written  of  all  his  works.  It  wants,  perhaps,  the  constant 
movement,  the  effervescence  of  animal  spirits,  which  we  find 
in  Love  for  Love.  But  the  hysterical  rants  of  Lady  Wish- 
fort,  the  meeting  of  Witwoukl  and  his  brother,  the  country 
knight’s  courtship  and  his  subsequent  revel,  and,  above  all, 
the  chase  and  surrender  of  Millamant,  superior  to  anything 
that  is  to  be  found  in  the  whole  range  of  English  comedy 
from  the  civil  war  downwards.  It  is  quite  inexplicable  to 
us  that  this  play  should  have  failed  on  the  stage.  Vet  so  it 
was ; and  the  author,  already  sore  with  the  wounds  which 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


D39 


Collier  had  inflicted,  was  galled  past  endurance  by  this  new 
stroke.  He  resolved  never  again  to  expose  himself  to  the 
rudeness  of  a tasteless  audience,  and  took  leave  of  the  thea- 
tre forever. 

He  lived  twenty-eight  years  longer,  without  adding  to 
the  high  literary  reputation  which  he  had  attained.  lie  read 
much  while  he  retained  his  eyesight,  and  now  and  then  wrote 
a short  essay,  or  put  an  idle  tale  into  verse ; but  he  appears 
never  to  have  planned  any  considerable  work.  The  miscel- 
laneous pieces  which  he  published  in  1710  are  of  little  value, 
and  have  long  been  forgotten. 

The  stock  of  fame  which  he  had  acquired  by  his  comedies 
was  sufficient,  assisted  by  the  graces  of  his  manner  and  con- 
versation, to  secure  for  him  a high  place  in  the  estimation 
of  the  world.  During  the  winter,  lie  lived  among  the  most 
distinguished  and  agreeable  people  in  London.  His  sum- 
mers were  passed  at  the  splendid  country-seats  of  ministers 
and  peers.  Literary  envy  and  political  faction,  which  in 
that  age  respected  nothing  else,  respected  his  repose.  He 
professed  to  be  one  of  the  party  of  which  his  patron  Mon- 
tagu, now  Lord  Halifax,  was  the  head.  But  he  had  civil 
words  and  small  good  offices  for  men  of  every  shade  of 
opinion.  And  men  of  every  shade  of  opinion  spoke  well  of 
him  in  return. 

His  means  were  for  a long  time  scanty.  The  place  which 
he  had  in  possession  barely  enabled  him  to  live  with  com- 
fort. And,  when  the  Tories  came  into  power,  some  thought 
that  he  would  lose  even  this  moderate  provision.  But  Harly, 
who  was  by  no  means  disposed  to  adopt  the  exterminating 
policy  of  the  October  club,  and  who,  with  all  his  faults  of 
understanding  and  temper,  had  a sincere  kindness  for  men 
of  genius,  reassured  the  anxious  poet  by  quoting  very  grace- 
fully and  happily  the  lines  of  Virgil, 

“ Non  obtusa  adeo  gestamus  pectora  Pceni, 

Nec  tam  avers  us  equos  Tyria  Sol  jungit  al  nrbe.” 

The  indulgence  with  which  Congreve  was  treated  by  the 
Tories  was  not  purchased  by  any  concession  on  his  part 
which  could  justly  offend  the  Whigs.  It  was  his  rare  good 
fortune  to  share  the  triumph  of  his  friends  without  having 
shared  their  proscription.  When  the  House  of  Hanover 
came  to  the  throne,  he  partook  largely  of  the  prosperity  of 
those  with  whom  he  was  connected.  The  reversion  to  which 
he  had  been  nominated  twenty  years  before  fell  in.  He 
was  made  secretary  tr  the  island  of  Jamaica  ; and  his  whole 


540  maoaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

income  amounted  to  twelve  hundred  a year,  a fortune  which, 
for  a single  man,  was  in  that  age  not  only  easy  but  splendid. 
He  continued,  however,  to  practise  the  frugality  which  he 
had  learned  when  he  could  scarce  spare,  as  Swift  tells  us, 
a shilling  to  pay  the  chairmen  who  carried  him  to  Lord 
Halifax’s.  Though  he  had  nobody  to  save  for,  he  laid  up 
at  least  as  much  as  he  spent. 

The  infirmities  of  age  came  early  upon  him.  His  habits 
had  been  intemperate  ; he  suffered  much  from  gout ; and, 
when  confined  to  his  chamber,  he  had  no  longer  the  solace 
of  literature.  Blindness,  the  most  cruel  misfortune  that  can 
befall  the  lonely  student,  made  his  books  useless  to  him. 
He  was  thrown  on  society  for  all  his  amusement ; and  in 
society  his  good-breeding  and  vivacity  made  him  always 
welcome. 

By  the  rising  men  of  letters  he  was  considered  not  as  a 
rival,  but  as  a classic.  He  had  left  their  arena ; lie  never 
measured  his  strength  with  them  ; and  he  was  always  loud 
in  applause  of  their  exertions.  They  could,  therefore,  enter- 
tain no  jealousy  of  him,  and  thought  no  more  of  detracting 
from  his  fame  than  of  carping  at  the  great  men  who  had 
been  lying  a hundred  years  in  Poets’  Corner.  Even  the 
inmates  of  Grub  Street,  even  the  heroes  of  the  Dunciad,  were 
for  once  just  to  living  merit.  There  can  be  no  stronger 
illustration  of  the  estimation  in  which  Congreve  was  held 
than  the  fact  that  the  English  Iliad,  a work  which  appeared 
with  more  splendid  auspices  than  any  other  in  our  language, 
was  dedicated  to  him.  There  was  not  a duke  in  the  king- 
dom who  would  not  have  been  proud  of  such  a compliment. 
Dr.  Johnson  expresses  great  admiration  for  the  indepen- 
dence of  spirit  which  Pope  showed  on  this  occasion.  “ He 
passed  over  peers  and  statesmen  to  inscribe  his  Iliad  to  Con- 
greve, with  a magnanimity  of  which  the  praise  had  been 
complete,  had  his  friend’s  virtue  been  equal  to  his  wit.  Why 
he  was  chosen  for  so  great  an  honor,  it  is  not  now  possible 
to  know.”  It  is  certainly  impossible  to  know  ; yet  we  think 
it  is  possible  to  guess.  The  translation  of  the  Iliad  had  been 
zealously  befriended  by  men  of  all  political  opinions.  The 
poet  who,  at  an  early  age,  should  be  raised  to  affluence  by 
the  emulous  liberality  of  Whigs  and  Tories,  could  not  with 
propriety  inscribe  to  a chief  of  either  party  a work  which 
had  been  munificently  patronized  by  both.  It  was  neces- 
sary to  find  some  person  who  was  at  once  eminent  and  neu- 
tral It  was  therefqiQ  necessary  to  pass  over  peers  and 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


541 


statesmen.  Congreve  had  a high  name  in  letters.  He  had 
a high  name  in  aristocratic  circles.  He  lived  on  terms  of 
civility  with  men  of  all  parties.  By  a courtesy  paid  to  him, 
neither  the  ministers  nor  the  leaders  of  the  opposition  could 
be  offended. 

The  singular  affectation  which  had  from  the  first  been 
characteristic  of  Congreve  grew  stronger  and  stronger  as  he 
advanced  in  life.  At  last  it  became  disagreeable  to  him  to 
hear  his  own  comedies  praised.  Voltaire,  whose  soul  was 
burned  up  by  the  raging  desire  for  literary  renown,  was  half 
puzzled  and  half  disgusted  by  what  he  saw  during  his  visit 
to  England,  of  this  extraordinary  whim.  Congreve  dis- 
claimed the  character  of  a poet,  declared  that  his  plays  were 
trifles  produced  in  an  idle  hour,  and  begged  that  Voltaire 
would  consider  him  merely  as  a gentlemen.  “If  you  had 
been  merely  a gentleman,”  said  Voltaire,  “ I should  not  have 
come  to  see  you.” 

Congreve  was  not  a man  of  warm  affections.  Domestic 
ties  he  had  none  ; and  in  the  temporary  connections  which 
he  formed  with  a succession  of  beauties  from  th  j green- 
room his  heart  does  not  appear  to  have  been  interested.  Of 
all  his  attachments  that  to  Mrs.  Bracegirdle  lasted  the 
longest  and  was  the  most  celebrated.  This  charming  actress, 
who  was,  during  many  years,  the  idol  of  all  London,  whose 
face  caused  the  fatal  broil  in  which  Mountfort  fell,  and  for 
which  Lord  Mohun  was  tried  by  the  Peers,  and  to  whom 
the  Earl  of  Scarsdale  was  said  to  have  made  honorable  ad- 
dresses, had  conducted  herself,  in  very  trying  circumstances 
with  extraordinary  discretion.  Congreve  at  length  became 
her  confidential  friend.  They  constantly  rode  out  together 
and  dined  together.  Some  people  said  that  she  was  his 
mistress,  and  others  that  she  would  soon  be  his  wife.  He 
"Was  at  last  drawn  away  from  her  by  the  influence  of  a 
wealthier  and  haughtier  beauty.  Henrietta,  daughter  of 
the  great  Marlborough,  and  Countess  of  Godolphin,  had,  on 
her  father’s  death,  succeeded  to  his  dukedom,  and  to  the 
greater  part  of  his  immense  property.  Her  husband  was  an 
insignificant  man,  of  whom  Lord  Chesterfield  said  he  came 
to  the  House  of  Peers  only  to  sleep,  and  that  he  might  as 
well  sleep  on  the  right  as  on  the  left  of  the  woolsack. 
Between  the  Duchess  and  Congreve  sprang  up  a most  eccen- 
tric friendship.  He  had  a seat  every  day  at  her  table,  and 
assisted  in  the  direction  of  her  concerts.  That  malignant 
old  beldante  the  Dowager  Duchess  Sarah,  who  had  quaj* 


542  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

relied  with  her  daughter  as  she  had  quarrelled  with  every- 
body else,  affected  to  suspect  that  there  was  something 
wrong.  But  the  world  in  general  appears  to  have  thought 
that  a great  lady  might,  without  any  imputation  on  her 
character,  pay  marked  attention  to  a man  of  eminent  genius 
who  was  near  sixty  years  old,  who  was  still  older  in  appear- 
ance and  in  constitution,  who  was  confined  to  his  chair  by 
gout,  and  who  was  unable  to  read  from  blindness. 

In  the  summer  of  1728,  Congreve  was  ordered  to  try  the 
Bath  waters.  During  his  excursion  he  was  overturned  in 
his  chariot,  and  received  some  severe  internal  injury  from 
which  he  never  recovered.  He  came  back  to  London  in  a 
dangerous  state,  complained  constantly  of  a pain  in  his  side, 
and  continued  to  sink,  till  in  the  following  January  he 
expired. 

He  left  ten  thousand  pounds,  saved  out  of  the  emol- 
uments of  his  lucrative  places.  Johnson  says  that  this 
money  ought  to  have  gone  to  the  Congreve  family,  which 
was  then  in  great  distress.  Doctor  Young  and  Mr.  Leigh 
Hunt,  two  gentlemen  who  seldom  agree  with  each  other, 
but  with  whom,  on  this  occasion,  we  are  happy  to  agree, 
think  that  it  ought  to  have  gone  to  Mrs.  Bracegirdle.  Con- 
greve bequeathed  two  hundred  pounds  to  Mrs.  Bracegirdle, 
and  an  equal  sum  to  a certain  Mrs.  Jellat;  but  the  bulk  of 
his  accumulations  went  to  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough,  in 
whose  immense  wealth  such  a legacy  was  as  a drop  in  the 
bucket.  It  might  have  raised  the  fallen  fortunes  of  a Staf- 
fordshire squire  ; it  might  have  enabled  a retired  actress  to 
enjoy  every  comfort,  and,  in  her  sense,  every  luxury : but 
it  was  hardly  sufficient  to  defray  the  Duchess’s  establish- 
ment for  three  months. 

The  great  lady  buried  her  friend  with  a pomp  seldom 
seen  at  the  funerals  of  poets.  The  corpse  lay  in  state  under 
the  ancient  roof  of  the  Jerusalem  Chamber,  and  was  interred 
in  Westminster  Abbey.  The  pall  was  borne  by  the  Duke 
of  Bridgewater,  Lord  Cobham,  the  Earl  of  Wilmington, 
who  had  been  speaker,  and  was  afterwards  First  Lord  of 
the  Treasury,  and  other  men  of  high  consideration.  Her 
Grace  laid  out  her  friend’s  bequest  in  a superb  diamond 
necklace,  which  she  wore  in  honor  of  him,  and,  if  report  is 
to  be  believed,  showed  her  regard  in  ways  much  more  ex- 
traordinary. It  is  said  that  a statue  of  him  in  ivory,  which 
moved  by  clockwork,  was  placed  daily  at  her  table,  that  she 
had  a wax  doll  made  in  imitation  of  him,  and  that  the  feet 


LEIGH  HTTHT. 


548 


of  the  doll  were  regularly  blistered  and  anointed  by  the  doc- 
tors, as  poor  Congreve’s  feet  had  been  when  he  suffered 
from  the  gout.  A monument  was  erected  to  the  poet  in 
Westminster  Abbey,  with  an  inscription  written  by  the 
Duchess  ; and  Lord  Cobham  honored  him  with  a cenotaph, 
which  seems  to  us,  though  that  is  a bold  word,  the  ugliest 
and  most  absurd  of  the  buildings  at  Stowe. 

We  have  said  that  Wycherley  was  a worse  Congreve. 
There  was,  indeed,  a remarkable  analogy  between  the  writ- 
ings and  lives  of  these  two  men.  Both  were  gentlemen 
liberally  educated.  Both  led  town  lives,  and  knew  human 
nature  only  as  it  appears  between  Hyde  Park  and  the 
Tower.  Both  were  men  of  wit.  Neither  had  much  imag- 
ination. Both  at  an  early  age  produced  lively  and  profli- 
gate comedies.  Both  retired  from  the  field  while  still  in 
early  manhood,  and  owed  to  their  youthful  achievements  in 
literature  whatever  consideration  they  enjoyed  in  later  life. 
Both,  after  they  had  ceased  to  write  for  the  stage,  published 
volumes  of  miscellanies  which  did  little  credit  either  to 
their  talents  or  to  their  morals.  Both,  during  their  declin- 
ing years,  hung  loose  upon  society ; and  both  in  their  last 
moments,  made  eccentric  and  unjustifiable  dispositions  of 
their  estates. 

But  in  every  point  Congreve  maintained  his  superiority 
to  Wycherley.  Wycherley  had  wit;  but  the  wit  of  Con- 
greve far  outshines  that  of  every  comic  writer,  except  Sher- 
idan, who  has  arisen  within  the  last  two  centuries.  Con- 
greve had  not,  in  a large  measure,  the  poetical  faculty ; but 
compared  with  W ycherley  he  might  be  called  a great  poet. 
Wycherley  had  some  knowledge  of  books;  but  Congreve 
was  a man  of  real  learning.  Congreve’s  offences  against 
decorum,  though  highly  culpable,  were  not  so  gross  as  those 
of  Wycherley;  nor  did  Congreve,  like  Wycherley,  exhibit 
to  the  world  the  deplorable  spectacle  of  a licentious  dotage. 
Congreve  died  in  the  enjoyment  of  high  consideration ; 
Wycherley  forgotten  or  despised.  Congreve’s  will  was  ab- 
surd and  capricious ; but  Wycherley’s  last  actions  appear  to 
have  been  prompted  by  obdurate  malignity. 

Here,  at  least  for  the  present,  we  must  stop.  Vanbrugh 
and  Farquhar  are  not  men  to  be  hastily  dismissed,  and  we 
have  not  left  ourselves  space  to  do  them  justice. 


&4t 


macaulav’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


LORD  HOLLAND  * 

( Edinburgh  Review , July,  1841.) 

Many  reasons  make  it  impossible  for  ns  to  lay  before 
onr  readers,  at  the  present  moment,  a complete  view  of  the 
character  and  public  career  of  the  late  Lord  Holland.  Bit 
we  feel  that  we  have  already  deferred  too  long  the  duty  of 
paying  some  tribute  to  his  memory.  We  feel  that  it  is 
more  becoming  to  bring  without  further  delay  an  offering, 
though  intrinsically  of  little  value,  than  to  leave  his  tomb 
longer  without  some  token  of  our  reverence  and  love. 

We  shall  say  very  little  of  the  book  which  lies  on  our 
table.  And  yet  it  is  a book  which,  even  if  it  had  been  the 
work  of  a less  distinguished  man,  or  had  appeared  under 
circumstances  less  interesting,  would  have  well  repaid  an 
attentive  perusal.  It  is  valuable,  both  as  a record  of  princi- 
ples and  as  a model  of  composition.  We  find  in  it  all  the 
great  maxims  which,  during  more  than  forty  years,  guided 
Lord  Holland’s  public  conduct,  and  the  chief  reasons  on 
which  those  maxims  rest,  condensed  into  the  smallest  pos- 
sible space,  and  set  forth  with  admirable  perspicuity,  dig- 
nity, and  precision.  To'  his  opinions  on  Foreign  Policy  we 
for  the  most  part  cordially  assent ; but,  now  and  then  we 
are  inclined  to  think  them  imprudently  generous.  • We 
could  not  have  signed  the  protest  against  the  detention  of 
Napoleon.  The  protest  respecting  the  course  which  Eng- 
land pursued  at  the  Congress  of  Verona,  though  it  contains 
much  that  is  excellent,  contains  also  positions  which,  we 
are  inclined  to  think,  Lord  Holland  would,  at  a later  period, 
have  admitted  to  be  unsound.  But  to  all  his  doctrines  on 
constitutional  questions,  we  give  our  hearty  approbation ; 
and  we  firmly  believe  that  no  British  government  has  ever 
deviated  from  that  line  of  internal  policy  which  he  has 
traced,  without  detriment  to  the  public. 

We  will  give,  as  a specimen  of  this  little  volume,  a single 
passage,  in  which  a chief  article  of  the  political  creed  of  the 
Whigs  is  stated  and  explained,  with  singular  clearness,  force, 

* The  Opinion  ft  of  Lord  Holland , as  recorded  in  the  Journals  of  the  House  of 
Lords , from  1797  to  1841.  Collected  and  edited  by  D.  C.  Moylan,  of  Lincoln’s- 
Inn,  B arris  ter-atr  Law.  8vo.  London;  1841. 


LORD  HOLLAND. 


545 


and  brevity.  Our  readers  will  remember  that,  in  1825,  the 
Catholic  Association  raised  the  cry  of  emancipation  with 
most  formidable  effect.  The  Tories  acted  after  their  kind. 
Instead  of  removing  the  grievance  they  tried  to  put  down 
the  agitation,  and  brought  in  a law,  apparently  sharp  and 
stringent,  but  in  truth  utterly  impotent,  for  restraining  the 
right  of  petition.  Lord  Holland’s  Protest  on  that  occasion 
is  excellent. 

“We  are,”  says  he,  “well  aware  that  the  privileges  of  the  people,  the 
tights  of  free  discussion,  and  the  spirit  and  letter  of  our  popular  institutions, 
must  render, — and  they  are  intended  to  render, — the  continuance  of  an  ex- 
tensive grievance,  and  of  the  dissatisfaction  consequent  thereupon,  danger- 
ous to  the  tranquillity  of  the  country,  and  ultimately  subversive  of  the  au- 
thority of  the  State.  Experience  and  theory  alike  forbid  us  to  deny  that 
effect  of  a free  constitution  ; a sense  of  justice  and  a love  of  liberty 
equally  deter  us  from  lamenting  it.  But  we  have  always  been  taught  to 
look  for  the  remedy  of  such  disorders  in  the  redress  of  the  grievances  which 
justify  them,  and  in  the  removal  of  the  dissatisfaction  from  which  they  flow 
— not  in  restraints  on  ancient  privileges,  not  in  inroads  on  the  right  of  pub- 
lic discussion,  nor  in  violations  of  the  principles  of  a free  government.  If, 
therefore,  the*  legal  method  of  seeking  redress,  which  has  been  resorted  to 
by  persons  laboring  under  grievous  disabilities,  be  fraught  with  immediate 
or  remote  danger  to  the  State,  we  draw  from  that  circumstance  a conclusion 
long  since  foretold  by  great  authority — namely,  that  the  British  constitution, 
and  large  exclusions,  cannot  subsist  together  ; that  the  constitution  must 
destroy  them,  or  they  will  destroy  the  constitution.” 

It  was  not,  however,  of  this  little  book,  valuable  and  in- 
teresting as  it  is,  but  of  the  author,  that  we  meant  to  speak; 
and  we  will  try  to  do  so  with  calmness  and  impartiality. 

In  order  to  fully  appreciate  the  character  of  Lord  Hol- 
land, it  is  necessary  to  go  far  hack  into  the  history  of  his 
family,  for  he  had  inherited  something  more  than  a coronet 
and  an  estate.  To  the  House  of  which  he  was  the  head  be- 
longs one  distinction  which  we  believe  to  be  without  a 
parallel  in  our  annals.  During  more  than  a century,  there 
has  never  been  a time  at  which  a Fox  has  not  stood  in  a 
prominent  station  among  public  men.  Scarcely  had  the 
chequered  career  of  the  first  Lord  Holland  closed,  when  his 
son,  Charles,  rose  to  the  head  of  the  Opposition,  and  to  the 
first  rank  among  English  debaters.  And  before  Charles 
was  borne  to  Westminster  Abbey  a third  Fox  had  already 
become  one  of  the  most  conspicuous  politicians  in  the  king- 
dom. 

It  is  impossible  not  to  be  struck  by  the  strong  family 
likeness  which,  In  spite  of  diversities  arising  from  education 
and  position,  appears  in  these  three  distinguished  persons. 
In  their  faces  and  figures  there  was  a resemblance,  such  as 
is  common  enough  in  novels,  where  one  picture  is  good  for 
Vol.  IL— 35 


546  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

ten  generations,  but  such  as  in  real  life  is  seldom  found. 
The  ample  persons,  the  massy  and  thoughtful  forehead,  the 
large  eyebrows,  the  full  cheek  and  lip,  the  expression,  so 
singularly  compounded  of  sense,  humor,  courage,  openness, 
a strong  will  and  a sweet  temper,  were  common  to  all.  But 
the  features  of  the  founder  of  the  House,  as  the  pencil  of 
Reynolds  and  the  chisel  of  Nollekens  have  handed  them 
down  to  us,  were  disagreeably  harsh  and  exaggerated.  In 
his  . descendants  the  aspect  was  preserved,  but  it  was  softened 
till  it  became,  in  the  late  lord,  the  most  gracious  and  inter- 
esting countenance  that  was  ever  lighted  up  by  the  mingled 
lustre  of  intelligence  and  benevolence. 

As  it  was  with  the  faces  of  the  men  of  this  noble  family, 
so  was  it  also  with  their  minds.  Nature  had  done  much  for 
them  all.  She  had  moulded  them  all  of  that  clay  of  which 
she  is  most  sparing.  To  all  she  had  given  strong  reason 
and  sharp  wit,  a quick  relish  for  every  physical  and  intellec- 
tual enjoyment,  constitutional  intrepidity,  and  that  frankness 
by  which  constitutional  intrepidity  is  generally  accompanied, 
spirits  which  nothing  could  depress,  tempers  easy,  generous, 
and  placable,  and  that  genial  courtesy  which  has  its  seat  in 
the  heart,  and  of  which  artificial  politeness  is  only  a faint 
and  cold  imitation.  Such  a disposition  is  the  richest  inherit- 
ance that  ever  was  entailed  on  any  family. 

But  training  and  situation  greatly  modified  the  fine 
qualities  which  nature  lavished  with  such  profusion  on  three 
generations  of  the  house  of  Fox.  The  first  Lord  Holland 
was  a needy  political  adventurer.  He  entered  public  life  at 
a time  when  the  standard  of  integrity  among  statesmen  was 
low.  He  started  as  the  adherent  of  a minister  who  had  in- 
deed many  titles  to  respect,  who  possessed  eminent  talents 
both  for  administration  and  for  debate,  who  understood  the 
public  interest  well,  and  who  meant  fairly  by  the  country, 
but  who  had  seen  so  much  perfidy  and  meanness  that  he 
had  become  skeptical  as  to  the  existence  of  probity.  Weary 
of  the  cant  of  patriotism,  Wal  >le  had  learned  to  talk  a 
cant  of  a different  kind.  Disgusted  by  that  sort  of  hypoc- 
risy which  is  at  least  a homage  to  virtue,  he  was  too  much 
i i the  habit  of  practising  the  less  respectable  hypocrisy 
which  ostentatiously  displays,  and  sometimes  even  simulates 
vice.  To  Walpcle  Fox  attached  himself,  politically  and 
personally,  with  the  ardor  which  belonged  to  his  tempera- 
ment. And  it  is  not  to  be  denied  that  in  the  school  of  Wal- 
pole he  contracted  faults  which  destroyed  the*  of  big 


LORD  HOLLAND.  547 

many  great  endowments.  He  raised  himself,  indeed,  to 
the  first  consideration  in  the  House  of  Commons  ; he  became 
a consummate  master  of  the  art  of  debate ; he  attained 
honors  and  immense  wealth ; but  the  public  esteem  and 
confidence  were  withheld  from  him.  His  private  friends, 
indeed,  justly  extolled  his  generosity  and  good  nature.  They 
maintained  that  in  those  parts  of  his  conduct  which  they 
could  least  defend  there  was  nothing  sordid,  and  that,  if  he 
was  misled,  he  was  misled  by  amiable  feelings,  by  a desire 
to  serve  his  friends,  and  by  anxious  tenderness  for  his  chil- 
dren. But  by  the  nation  he  was  regarded  as  a man  of  in- 
satiable rapacity  and  desperate  ambition  ; as  a man  ready 
to  adopt,  without  scruple,  the  most  immoral  and  the  most 
unconstitutional  manners  ; as  a man  perfectly  fitted,  by  all 
his  opinions  and  feelings,  for  the  work  of  managing  the 
Parliament  by  means  of  secret-service-money,  and  of  keeping 
down  the  people  with  the  bayonet.  Many  of  his  contem- 
poraries had  a morality  quite  as  lax  as  his : but  very  few 
among  them  had  his  talents,  and  none  had  his  hardihood  and 
energy.  He  could  not,  like  Sandys  and  Doddington,  find 
safety  in  contempt.  He  therefore  became  an  object  of  such 
general  aversion  as  no  statesman  since  the  fall  of  Strafford 
has  incurred,  of  such  general  aversion  as  was  probably  never 
in  any  country  incurred  by  a man  of  so  kind  and  cordial  a 
disposition.  A weak  mind  wrould  have  sunk  under  such  a 
load  of  unpopularity.  But  that  resolute  spirit  seemed  to 
derive  new  firmness  from  the  public  hatred.  The  only  effect 
which  reproaches  appeared  to  produce  on  him,  was  to  sour, 
in  some  degree,  his  naturally  sweet  temper.  The  last  acts  of 
his  public  life  were  marked,  not  only  by  that  audacity  which 
he  had  derived  from  nature,  not  only  by  that  immorality 
which  he  had  learned  in  the  school  of  Walpole,  but  by  a 
harshness  which  almost  amounted  to  cruelty,  and  which  had 
never  been  supposed  to  belong  to  his  character.  His  severity 
increased  the  unpopularity  from  which  it  had  sprung.  The 
well-known  lampoon  of  Gray  may  serve  as  a specimen  of 
the  feeling  of  the  country.  All  the  images  are  taken  from 
shipwrecks,  quicksands,  and  cormorants.  Lord  Holland 
is  represented  as  complaining,  that  the  cowardice  of  his  ac- 
complices had  prevented  him  from  putting  down  the  free 
spirit  of  the  city  of  London  by  sword  and  fire,  and  as  pining 
for  the  time  when  birds  of  prey  should  make  their  nests  in 
Westminster  Abbey,  and  unclean  beasts  burrow  in  St. 
Paul’s. 


548  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  waitings. 

Within  a few  months  after  the  death  of  this  remarkable 
man,  his  second  son  Charles  appeared  at  the  head  of  the 
party  opposed  to  the  American  W a-r.  Charles  had  inherited 
the  bodily  and  mental  constitution  of  his  father,  and  had 
been  much,  far  too  much,  under  his  father’s  influence.  It 
was  indeed  impossible  that  a son  of  so  affectionate  and  noble 
a nature  should  not  have  been  warmly  attached  to  a parent 
who  possessed  many  fine  qualities,  and  who  carried  his  in- 
dulgence and  liberality  towards  his  children  even  to  a cul- 
pable extent.  Charles  saw  that  the  person  to  whom  he  was 
bound  by  the  strongest  ties  was,  in  the  highest  degree, 
odious  to  the  nation ; and  the  effect  was  what  might  have 
been  expected  from  the  strong  passion  and  constitutional 
boldness  of  so  high-spirited  a youth.  He  cast  in  his  lot 
with  his  father,  and  took,  while  still  a boy,  a deep  part  in 
the  most  unjustifiable  and  unpopular  measures  that  baa 
been  adopted  since  the  reign  of  James  the  Second.  In  the 
debates  on  the  Middlesex  Election,  he  distinguished  himself, 
not  only  by  his  precocious  powers  of  eloquence,  but  by  the 
vehement  and  scornful  manner  in  which  he  bade  defiance  to 
public  opinion.  He  was  at  that  time  regarded  as  a man  likely 
to  be  the  most  formidable  champion  of  arbitrary  government 
that  had  appeared  since  the  Revolution,  to  be  a Bute  with 
far  greater  powers,  a Mansfield  with  far  greater  courage. 
Happily,  his  father’s  death  liberated  him  early  from  the  per- 
nicious influence  by  which  he  had  been  misled.  His  mind 
expanded.  His  range  of  observation  became  wider.  His 
genius  broke  through  early  prejudices.  His  natural  benevo- 
lence and  magnanimity  had  fair  play.  In  a very  short  time 
he  appeared  in  a situation  worthy  of  his  understanding  and 
of  his  heart.  From  a family  whose  name  was  associated  in 
the  public  mind  with  tyranny  and  corruption,  from  a party  of 
which  the  theory  and  the  practice  were  equally  servile,  from 
the  midst  of  the  Luttrclls,  the  Dysons,  the  Barringtons, 
come  forth  the  greatest  parliamentary  defender  of  civil  and 
religious  liberty. 

The  late  Lord  Holland  succeeded  to  the  talents  and  to 
the  fine  natural  disposition  of  his  House.  But  his  situation 
was  very  different  from  that  of  the  two  eminent  men  of 
whom  we  have  spoken.  In  some  important  respects  it  was 
better,  and  in  seme  it  was  worse  than  theirs.  He  had  one 
great  advantage  over  them.  He  received  a good  political 
education.  The  first  lord  was  educated  by  Sir  Robert  Wal- 
pole. Mr.  Fox  was  educated  by  his  father.  The  late  lord 


LORD  HOLLAND. 


549 


Was  educated  by  Mr.  Fox.  The  pernicious  maxims  early 
imbibed  by  the  first  Lord  Holland  made  his  great  talents 
useless,  and  worse  than  useless,  to  the  State.  The  pernicious 
maxims  early  imbibed  by  Mr.  Fox  led  him,  at  the  com- 
mencement of  his  public  life,  into  great  faults  which,  though 
afterwards  nobly  expiated,  were  never  forgotten.  To  the 
very  end  of  his  career,  small  men,  when  they  had  nothing 
else  to  say  in  defence  of  their  own  tyranny,  bigotry,  and 
imbecility,  could  always  raise  a cheer  by  some  paltry  taunt 
about  the  election  of  Colonel  Luttrell,  the  imprisonment  of 
the  lord  mayor,  and  other  measures  in  which  the  great 
Whig  leader  had  borne  a part  at  the  age  of  one  or  two  and 
twenty.  On  Lord  Holland  no  such  slur  could  be  thrown. 
Those  who  most  dissent  from  his  opinions  must  acknowledge 
that  a public  life  more  consistent  is  not  to  be  found  in  our 
annals.  Every  part  of  it  is  in  perfect  harmony  with  every 
other  part ; and  the  whole  is  in  perfect  harmony  with  the 
great  principles  of  toleration  and  civil  freedom.  This  rare 
felicity  is  in  a great  measure  to  be  attributed  to  the  influ- 
ence of  Mr.  Fox.  Lord  Holland,  as  was  natural  in  a per- 
son of  his  talents  and  expectations,  began  at  a very  early  age 
to  take  the  keenest  interest  in  politics ; and  Mr.  Fox  found 
the  greatest  pleasure  in  forming  the  mind  of  so  hopeful  a 
pupil.  They  corresponded  largely  on  political  subjects 
when  the  young  lord  was  only  sixteen  ; and  their  friendship 
and  mutual  confidence  continued  to  the  day  of  that  mourn- 
ful separation  at  Chiswick.  Under  such  training  such  a 
man  as  Lord  Holland  was  in  no  danger  of  falling  into  th'ose 
faults  which  threw  a dark  shade  over  the  whole  career  of 
his  grandfather,  and  from  which  the  youth  of  his  uncle  was 
not  wholly  free. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  late  Lord  Holland,  as  compared 
with  his  grandfather  and  his  uncle,  labored  under  one  great 
disadvantage.  They  were  members  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. He  became  a Peer  while  still  n n infant.  When  he 
enterel  public  life,  the  House  of  Lords  was  f very  small  and 
a very  decorous  assembly.  The  minority  to  which  he  be- 
longed was  scarcely  able  to  muster  five  or  six  votes  on  the 
most  important  nights,  when  eighty  or  ninety  lords  were 
present.  Debate  had  accordingly  become  a mere  form,  as 
it  was  in  the  Irish  House  of  Peers  before  the  Union.  This 
was  a great  misfortune  to  a man  like  Lord  Holland.  It  was 
not  by  occasionally  addressing  fifteen  or  twenty  solemn  and 
unfriendly  auditors,  that  his  grandfather  and  his  uncle  at- 


650  macattlay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

tained  their  unrivalled  parliamentary  skill.  The  former  had 
learned  his  art  in  “ the  great  Walpolean  battles,”  on  nights 
when  Onslow  was  in  the  chair  seventeen  hours  without  in- 
termission, when  the  thick  ranks  on  both  sides  kept  unbro- 
ken order  till  long  after  the  winter  sun  had  risen  upon  them, 
when  the  blind  were  led  out  by  the  hand  into  the  lobby  and 
the  paralytic  laid  down  in  their  bed-clothes  on  the  benches. 
The  powers  of  Charles  Fox  were,  from  the  first,  exercised 
in  conflicts  not  less  exciting.  The  great  talents  of  the  late 
Lord  Holland  had  no  such  advantage.  This  was  the  more 
unfortunate,  because  the  peculiar  species  of  eloquence  which 
belonged  to  him  in  common  with  his  family  required  much 
practice  to  develop  it.  With  strong  sense,  and  the  great- 
est readiness  of  wit,  a certain  tendency  to  hesitation  was 
hereditary  in  the  line  of  Fox.  This  hesitation  arose,  not 
from  the  poverty,  but  from  the  wealth  of  their  vocabulary. 
They  paused,  not  from  the  difficulty  of  finding  one  expres- 
sion, but  from  the  difficulty  of  choosing  between  several. 
It  was  only  by  slow  degrees  and  constant  exercise  that  the 
first  Lord  Holland  and  his  son  overcame  the  defect.  Indeed 
neither  of  them  overcame  it  completely. 

In  statement,  the  late  Lord  Holland  wras  not  successful ; 
his  chief  excellency  lay  in  reply.  He  had  the  quick  eye  of 
his  house  for  the  unsound  parts  of  an  argument,  and  a great 
felicity  in  exposing  them.  He  was  decidedly  more  distin- 
guished in  debate  than  any  peer  of  his  time  who  had  not  sat 
in  the  House  of  Commons.  Nay,  to  find  his  equal  among 
persons  similarly  situated,  we  must  go  back  eighty  years 
to  Earl  Granville.  For  Mansfield,  Thurlow,  Loughborough, 
Grey,  Grenville,  Brougham,  Plunkett,  and  other  eminent 
men,  living  and  dead,  whom  we  will  not  stop  to  enumerate, 
carried  to  the  Upper  House  an  eloquence  formed  and 
matured  in  the  Lower.  The  opinion  of  the  most  discern- 
ing judges  was  that  Lord  Holland’s  oratorical  performances, 
though  sometimes  most  successful,  afforded  no  fair  measure 
of  his  oratorical  powers,  and  that,  in  an  assembly  of  which 
the  debates  were  frequent  and  animated,  he  would  have  at- 
tained a very  high  order  of  excellence.  It  was,  indeed,  im- 
possible to  listen  to  his  conversation  without  seeing  that  he 
Was  born  a debater.  To  him  as  to  his  uncle,  the  exercise  of 
the  mind  in  discussion  was  a positive  pleasure.  With  the 
greatest  good  nature  and  good  breeding,  he  was  the  very 
opposite  to  an  assenter.  The  word  “disputatious”  is  gen- 
erally used  as  a word  of  reproach ; but  we  can  express  out 


LOKD  HOLLAND. 


551 


meaning  only  by  saying  that  Lord  Holland  was  most  court- 
eously and  pleasantly  disputatious.  In  truth,  his  quickness 
in  discovering  and  apprehending  distinctions  and  analogies 
was  such  as  a veteran  judge  might  envy.  The  lawyers  of 
the  Duchy  of  Lancaster  were  astonished  to  find  in  an  un- 
professional man  so  strong  a relish  for  the  esoteric  parts  of 
their  science,  and  complained  that  as  soon  as  they  had  split 
a hair,  Lord  Holland  proceeded  to  split  the  filaments  into 
filaments  still  finer.  In  a mind  less  happily  constituted, 
there  might  have  been  a risk  that  this  turn  for  subtilty 
would  have  produced  serious  evil.  But  in  the  heart  and 
understanding  of  Lord  Holland  there  was  ample  security 
against  all  such  danger.  He  was  not  a man  to  be  the  dupo 
of  his  own  ingenuity.  He  put  his  logic  to  its  proper  use, 
and  in  him  the  dialectician  was  always  subordinate  to  the 
statesman. 

His  political  life  is  written  in  the  chronicles  of  his  coun- 
try. Perhaps,  as  we  have  already  intimated,  his  opinions 
on  two  or  three  great  questions  of  foreign  policy  were  open 
to  just  objection.  Yet  even  his  errors,  if  he  erred,  were 
amiable  and  respectable.  W e are  not  sure  that  we  do  not  love 
and  admire  him  the  more  because  he  was  now  and  then  se- 
duced from  what  we  regard  as  a wise  policy  by  sympathy 
with  the  oppressed,  by  generosity  towards  the  fallen,  by  a 
philanthropy  so  enlarged  that  it  took  in  all  nations,  by  love 
of  peace,  a love  which  in  him  was  second  only  to  the  love 
of  freedom,  and  by  the  magnanimous  credulity  of  a mind 
which  was  as  incapable  of  suspecting  as  of  devising  mischief. 

To  his  views  on  questions  of  domestic  policy  the  voice 
of  his  countrymen  does  ample  justice.  They  revere  the 
memory  of  the  man  who  was,  during  forty  years,  the  con- 
stant protector  of  all  oppressed  races  and  persecuted  sects, 
of  tjie  man  whom  neither  the  prejudices  nor  the  interests 
belonging  to  his  station  could  seduce  from  the  path  of  right, 
of  the  noble,  who  in  every  great  crisis  cast  in  his  lot  with 
the  commons,  of  the  planter,  who  made  manful  war  on  the 
slave  trade,  of  the  landowner,  whose  whole  heart  was  in  the 
Struggle  against  the  corn-laws. 

We  have  hitherto  touched  almost  exclusively  on  those 
parts  of  Lord  Holland’s  character  which  were  open  to  the 
observation  of  millions.  How  shall  we  express  the  feelings 
with  which  his  memory  is  cherished  by  those  who  were  hon- 
ored with  his  friendship?  Grin  what  language  shall  we 
speak  ->f  that  nouse,  once  celebrated  for  its  rare  attraction# 


652 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


to  the  furthest  ends  of  the  civilized  world,  and  now  silent 
and  desolate  as  the  grave  ? To  th:?t  house,  a hundred  and 
twenty  years  ago,  a poet  addressed  those  tender  and  grace- 
ful lines,  which  have  now  acquired  a new  meaning  not  less 
sad  than  that  which  they  originally  bore. 

“ Thou  hill,  whose  brow  the  antique  structures  grace, 

Reared  by  bold  chiefs  of  Warwick’s  noble  race, 

Why,  once  so  loved,  whene’er  thy  power  appears, 

O’er  ray  dim  eyeballs  glance  the  sudden  tears  ? 

How  sweet  were  once  thy  prospects  fresh  and  fair, 

Thy  sloping  walks  and  unpolluted  air  ! 

How  sweet  the  glooms  beneath  thine  aged  trees, 

Thy  noon-tide  shadow  and  thine  evening  breeze  ! 

His  image  thy  forsaken  bowers  restore  ; 

Thy  walks  and  airy  prospects  charm  no  more  ; 

No  more  the  summer  in  thy  glooms  allayed, 

Thine  evening  breezes,  and  thy  noon-day  shade.’* 


Yet  a few  years,  and  the  shades  and  structures  may  fol- 
low their  illustrious  masters.  The  wonderful  city  which, 
ancient  and  gigantic  as  it  is,  still  continues  to  grow  as  fast  as 
a young  town  of  logwood  by  a water  privilege  in  Michigan, 
may  soon  displace  those  turrets  and  gardens  which  are  as- 
sociated with  so  much  that  is  interesting  and  noble,  with  the 
courtly  magnificence  of  Rich,  with  the  loves  of  Ormond,  with 
the  counsels  of  Cromwell,  with  the  death  of  Addison.  The 
time  is  coming  when,  perhaps,  a few  old  men,  the  last  sur- 
vivors of  our  generation,  will  in  vain  seek,  amidst  new  streets 
and  squares,  and  railway  stations,  for  the  site  of  that  dwell- 
ing which  was  in  their  youth  the  favorite  resort  of  wits  and 
beauties,  of  painters  and  poets,  of  scholars,  philosophers,  and 
statesmen.  They  will  then  remember,  with  strange  tender- 
ness, many  objects  once  familiar  to  them,  the  avenue  and  the 
terrace,  the  busts  and  the  paintings,  the  carving,  the  gro- 
tesque gilding,  and  the  enigmatical  mottoes.  With  peculiar 
fondness  they  will  recall  that  venerable  chamber,  in  which 
all  the  antique  gravity  of  a college  library  was  so  singularly 
blended  with  all  that  female  grace  and  wit  could  devise  to 
embellish  a drawing-room.  They  will  recollect,  not  un- 
moved, those  shelves  loaded  with  the  varied  learning  of  many 
lands  and  many  ages,  and  those  portraits  in  which  were  jwe* 
served  the  features  of  the  best  and  wisest  Englishmen  of  two 
generations.  They  will  recollect  how  many  men  who  have 
guided  the  politics  of  Europe,  who  have  moved  great  assem- 
blies by  reason  and  eloquence,  who  nave  put  life  into  bronze 
and  canvas,  or  who  haveNleft  to  posterity  things  so  written 
that  it  shall  not  willingly  let  them  die,  were  there  mixed  with 


to BD  HOLLAND, 


m 


all  that  Was  loveliest  and  gayest  in  the  society  of  the  most 
splendid  of  capitals.  They  will  remember  the  peculiar  char- 
acter which  belonged  to  that  circle,  in  which  every  talent  and 
accomplishment,  every  art  and  science,  had  its  place.  They 
will  remember  how  the  last  debate  was  discussed  in  one  cor- 
ner, and  the  last  comedy  of  Scribe  in  another  ; while  Wilkie 
gazed  with  modest  admiration  on  Sir  Joshua’s  Baretti ; while 
Mackintosh  turned  over  Thomas  Aquinas  to  verify  a quota- 
tion ; while  Talleyrand  related  his  conversations  with  Barras 
at  the  Luxembourg,  or  his  ride  with  Lanne's  over  the  field 
of  Austerlitz.  They  will  remember,  above  all,  the  grace,  and 
th  kindness  far  more  admirable  than  grace,  with  which  the 
princely  hospitality  of  that  ancient  mansion  was  dispensed. 
They  will  remember  the  venerable  and  benignant  counte- 
nance and  the  cordial  voice  of  him  who  bade  them  welcome. 
They  will  remember  that  temper  which  years  of  pain,  of 
sickness,  of  lameness,  of  confinement,  served  only  to  make 
sweeter  and  sweeter,  and  that  frank  politeness,  which  at  once 
relieved  all  the  embarrassment  of  the  youngest  and  most 
timid  writer  or  artist  who  found  himself  for  the  first  time 
among  Ambassadors  and  Earls.  They  will  remember  that 
constant  flow  of  conversation,  so  natural,  so  animated,  so 
various,  so  rich  with  observation  and  anecdote ; that  wit 
which  never  gave  a wound  ; that  exquisite  mimicry  which 
ennobled,  instead  of  degrading ; that  goodness  of  heart  which 
appeared  in  every  look  and  accent,  and  gave  additional  value 
to  every  talent  and  acquirement.  They  will  remember,  too, 
that  he  whose  name  they  hold  in  reverence  was  not  less  dis- 
tinguished by  the  inflexible  uprightness  of  his  political  con- 
duct than  by  his  loving  disposition  and  his  winningmanners. 
They  will  remember  that,  in  the  last  lines  which  he  traced, 
he  expressed  his  joy  that  he  had  done  nothing  unworthy  of 
the  friend  of  Fox  and  Grey ; and  they  will  have  reason  to 
feel  similar  joy,  if,  in  looking  back  on  many  troubled  years, 
they  cannot  accuse  themselves  of  having  done  anything  un- 
worthy of  men  who  were  distinguished  by  the  friendship  of 
Lord  Holland. 


564 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings* 


WARREN  HASTINGS 

{Edinburgh  Review , October , 1841.) 

We  are  inclined  to  think  that  we  shall  best  meet  the 
Wishes  of  our  readers,  if,  instead  of  minutely  examining  this 
book,  we  attempt  to  give,  in  a way  necessarily  hasty  and 
imperfect,  our  own  view  of  the  life  and  character  of  Mr. 
Hastings.  Our  feeling  towards  him  is  not  exactly  that  of 
the  House  of  Commons  which  impeached  him  in  1787 ; 
neither  is  i't  that  of  the  House  of  Commons  which  uncovered 
and  stood  up  to  recei  ve  him  in  1813.  He  had  great  qualities 
and  he  rendered  great  services  to  the  State.  But  to  represent 
him  as  a man  of  stainless  virtue  is  to  make  him  ridiculous  ; 
and  from  regard  for  his  memory,  if  from  no  other  feeling, 
his  friends  would  have  done  well  to  lend  no  countenance  to 
such  adulation.  We  believe  that,  if  he  were  now  living,  he 
would  have  sufficient  judgment  and  sufficient  greatness  of 
mind  to  wish  to  be  shown  as  he  was.  He  must  have  known 
that  there  were  dark  spots  on  his  fame.  He  might  also  have 
felt  with  pride  that  the  splendor  of  his  fame  would  bear 
many  spots.  He  would  have  wished  posterity  to  have  a 
likeness  of  him,  though  an  unfavorable  likeness,  rather  than 
a daub  at  once  insipid  and  unnatural,  resembling  neither  him 
nor  anybody  else.  “ Paint  me  as  I am,”  said  Oliver  Crom- 
well, while  sitting  to  young  Lely.  “ If  you  leave  out  the 
scars  and  wrinkles,  I will  not  pay  you  a shilling.”  Even  in 
such  a triil e,  the  great  Protector  showed  both  his  good  sense 
and  his  magnanimity.  He  did  not  wish  all  that  was  char- 
acteristic in  his  countenance  to  be  lost,  in  the  vain  attempt 
to  £ive  him  the  regular  features  and  smooth  blooming  cheeks 
of  the  curl-pated  minions  of  James  the  First.  lie  was  con- 
tent that  his  face  should  go  forth  marked  with  all  the 
blemishes  which  had  been  put  on  it  by  time,  by  war,  by 
sleepless  nights,  by  anxiety,  perhaps  by  remorse ; but  with 
valor,  policy,  authority,  and  public  care  written  in  all  its 

• Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  Warren  Hastings , first  Governor-General  of 
Bengal.  Compiled  from  Original  Papers,  by  the  Rev.  G.  R.  Gleig,  M.  A . 
3 volfl.  8yo.  London  ; 1841. 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


555 


princely  lines.  If  men  truly  great  knew  their  own  interest, 
it  is  thus  that  they  would  wish  their  minds  to  be  por- 
trayed. 

Warren  Hastings  sprang  from  an  ancient  and  illustrious 
race.  It  has  been  affirmed  that  his  pedigree  can  be  traced 
back  to  the  great  Danish  sea-king,  whose  sails  were  long  the 
terror  of  both  coasts  of  the  British  Channel,  and  who,  after 
many  fierce  and  doubtful  struggles,  yielded  at  last  to  the 
valor  and  genius  of  Alfred.  But  the  undoubted  splendor 
of  the  line  of  Hastings  needs  no  illustration  from  fable.  One 
branch  of  that  line  wore,  in  the  fourteenth  century,  the 
coronet  of  Pembroke.  From  another  branch  sprang  the 
renowned  Chamberlain,  the  faithful  adherent  of  the  White 
Rose,  whose  fate  has  furnished  so  striking  a theme  both  to 
poets  and  to  historians.  His  family  received  from  the  Tudors 
the  earldom  of  Huntingdon,  which,  after  long  dispossession, 
was  regained  in  our  time  by  a series  of  events  scarcely  par- 
alleled in  romance. 

The  lords'  of  the  manor  of  Daylesford,  in  Worcestershire, 
claimed  to  be  considered  as  the  heads  of  this  distinguished 
family.  The  main  stock,  indeed,  prospered  less  than  some 
of  the  younger  shoots.  But  the  Daylesford  family,  though 
not  ennobled,  was  wealthy  and  highly  considered,  till,  about 
two  hundred  years  ago,  it  was  overwhelmed  by  the  great 
ruin  of  the  civil  war.  The  Hastings  of  that  time  was  a 
zealous  cavalier.  He  raised  money  on  his  lands,  sent  his 
plate  to  the  mint  at  Oxford,  joined  the  royal  army,  and, 
after  spending  half  his  property  in  the  cause  of  King  Charles, 
was  glad  to  ransom  himself  by  making  over  most  of  the 
remaining  half  to  Speaker  Lenthal.  The  old  seat  at  Dayles- 
ford still  remained  in  the  family  ; but  it  could  no  longer  be 
kept  up ; and  in  the  following  generation  it  was  sold  to  a 
merchant  of  London. 

Before  this  transfer  took  place,  the  last  Hastings  of  Dayles- 
ford had  presented  his  second  son  to  the  rectory  of  the 
parish  in  which  the  ancient  residence  of  the  family  stood. 
The  living  was  of  little  value  ; and  the  situation  of  the  poor 
clergyman,  after  the  sale  of  the  estate,  was  deplorable.  He 
was  constantly  engaged  in  lawsuits  about  his  tithes  with  the 
new  lord  of  the  manor,  and  was  at  length  utterly  ruined. 
His  eldest  son,  Howard,  a well-conducted  young  man,  ob- 
tained a place  in  the  customs.  The  second  son,  Pynaston, 
an  idle,  worthless  boy,  married  before  he  was  sixteen,  lost 
his  wife  m two  years,  and  died  in  the  West  Indies,  leaving 


556  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

to  the  care  of  his  unfortunate  father  a little  orphan  destined 
to  strange  and  memorable  vicissitudes  of  fortune. 

Warren,  the  son  of  Pynaston,  was  born  on  the  sixth  of 
December,  1732.  His  mother  died  a few  days  later,  and  he 
was  left  dependent  on  his  distressed  grandfather.  The  child 
was  early  sent  to  the  village  school,  where  he  learned  his 
letters  on  the  same  bench  with  the  sons  of  the  peasantry  5 
nor  did  any  thing  in  his  garb  or  fare  indicate  that  his  life 
was  to  take  a widely  different  course  from  that  of  the  young 
rustics  with  whom  he  studied  and  played.  But  no  cloud 
could  overcast  the  dawn  of  so  much  genius  and  so  much 
ambition.  The  very  ploughmen  observed,  and  long  remem- 
bered, how  kindly  little  Warren  took  to  his  book.  The  daily 
sight  of  the  lands  which  his  ancestors  had  possessed,  and 
which  had  passed  into  the  hands  of  strangers,  filled  his  young 
brain  with  wild  fancies  and  projects.  He  loved  to  hear  . 
stories  of  the  wealth  and  greatness  of  his  progenitors,  of 
their  splendid  housekeeping,  thoir  loyalty,  and  their  valor. 
On  one  bright  summer  day,  the  boy,  then  just  seven  years 
old,  lay  on  the  bank  of  the  rivulet  which  flows  through  the 
old  domain  of  his  house  to  join  the  Isis.  There,  as  three- 
score and  ten  years  later  he  told  the  tale,  rose  in  his  mind 
a scheme  which,  through  all  the  turns  of  his  eventful  career, 
was  never  abandoned.  He  would  recover  the  estate  which 
had  belonged  to  his  fathers.  He  would  be  Hastings  of  Day- 
lesford.  This  purpose,  formed  in  infancy  and  poverty,  grew 
stronger  as  his  intellect  expanded  and  as  his  fortune  rose. 
He  pursued  his  plan  with  that  calm  but  indomitable  force  of 
will  which  was  the  most  striking  peculiarity  of  his  character. 
When,  under  a tropical  sun,  he  ruled  fifty  millions  of  Asiatics, 

1 1 is  hopes,  amidst  all  the  cares  of  war,  finance,  and  legislation, 
still  pointed  to  Daylesford.  And  when  his  long  public  life,  ^ 
so  singularly  chequered  with  good  and  evil,  with  glory  and 
obloquy,  had  at  length  closed  forever,  it  was  to  Daylesford  , 
that  he  retired  to  die. 

When  he  was  eight  years  old,  his  uncle  Howard  deter-  * 
mined  to  take  charge  of  him,  and  to  give  him  a liberal 
education.  The  boy  went  up  to  London,  and  was  sent  to  a 
school  at  Newington,  where  he  was  well  taught  but  ill  fed. 

He  always  attributed  the  smallness  of  his  stature  to  the 
hard  and  scanty  fare  of  this  seminary.  At  ten  he  was  re- 
moved to  Westminster  school,  then  flourishing  under  the 
care  of  Dr.  Nichols.  Vinny  Bourne,  as  his  pupils  affection- 
ately called  him,  was  one  of  the  masters,  Churchill,  Col 


WAREEN  HASTINGS. 


557 


man,  Lloyd,  Cumberland,  Cowper,  were  among  the  students. 
With  Cowper,  Hastings  formed  a friendship  which  neither 
the  lapse  of  time,  nor  a wide  dissimilarity  of  opinions  and 
pursuits,  could  wholly  dissolve.  It  does  not  appear  that 
they  ever  met  after  they  had  grown  to  manhood.  But 
forty  years  later,  when  the  voices  of  many  great  orators 
were  crying  for  vengeance  on  the  oppressor  of  India,  the 
shy  and  secluded  poet  could  image  to  himself  Hastings 
the  Governor-General  only  as  the  Hastings  with  whom  he 
had  rowed  on  the  Thames  and  played  in  the  cloister,  and 
refused  to  believe  that  so  good-tempered  a fellow  could  have 
done  anything  very  wrong.  His  own  life  had  been  spent 
in  praying,  musing,  and  rhyming  among  the  water-lilies  of 
the  Ouse.  He  had  preserved  in  no  common  measure  the 
innocence  of  childhood.  His  spirit  had  indeed  been  severely 
tried,  but  not  by  temptations  which  impelled  him  to  any 
gross  violation  of  the  rules  of  social  morality.  He  had 
never  been  attacked  by  combinations  of  powerful  and  deadly 
enemies.  He  had  never  been  compelled  to  make  a choice 
between  innocence  and  greatness,  between  crime  and  ruin. 
Firmly  as  he  held  in  theory  the  doctrine  of  human  deprav- 
ity, his  habits  were  such  that  he  was  unable  to  conceive 
how  far  from  the  path  of  right  even  kind  and  noble  natures 
may  be  hurried  by  the  rage  of  conflict  and  the  lust  of  do- 
minion. 

Hastings  had  another  associate  at  W estminster  of  whom 
we  shall  have  occasion  to  make  frequent  mention,  Elijah 
Impey.  We  know  little  about  their  school  days.  But,  we 
think,  we  may  safely  venture  to  guess  that,  whenever  Hast- 
ings wished  to  play  a trick  more  than  usually  naughty,  he 
hired  Impey  with  a tart  or  a ball  to  act  as  fag  in  the  worst 
part  of  the  prank. 

Warren  was  distinguished  among  his  comrades  as  an 
excellent  swimmer,  boatman,  and  scholar.  At  fourteen  he 
was  first  in  the  examination  for  the  foundation.  His  name 
in  gilded  letters  on  the  walls  of  the  dormitory  still  attests 
his  victory  over  many  older  competitors.  He  stayed  two 
years  longer  at  the  school,  and  was  looking  forward  to  a 
studentship  at  Christ  Church,  when  an  event  happened 
which  changed  the  whole  course  of  his  life.  Howard  Hast- 
ings died,  bequeathing  his  nephew  to  the  care  of  a friend 
and  distant  relation,  named  Chiswick.  This  gentleman, 
though  he  did  not  absolutely  refuse  the  charge,  was  desir* 
ous  to  rid  himself  of  it  as  soon  as  possible.  Dr,  Nichols 


b58  MACAULAY  *S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

made  strong  remonstrances  against  the  cruelty  of  interrupt- 
ing the  studies  of  a youth  who  seemed  likely  to  be  one  of 
the  first  scholars  of  the  age.  He  even  offered  to  bear  the 
expense  of  sending  his  favorite  pupil  to  Oxford.  But  Mr. 
Chiswick  was  inflexible.  He  thought  the  years  which  had 
already  been  wasted  on  hexameters  and  pentameters  quite 
sufficient.  He  had  it  in  his  power  to  obtain  for  the  lad  a 
writership  in  the  service  of  the  East  India  Company. 
Whether  the  young  adventurer,  when  once  shipped  off,  made 
a fortune,  or  died  of  a liver  complaint,  he  equally  ceased 
to  be  a burden  to  anybody.  Warren  was  accordingly  re- 
moved from  Westminster  school,  and  placed  for  a few 
months  at  a.  commercial  academy,  to  study  arithmetic  and 
book-keeping.  In  January,  1750,  a few  days  after  he  had 
completed  his  seventeenth  year,  he  sailed  for  Bengal,  and 
arrived  at  his  destination  in  the  October  following. 

He  was  immediately  placed  at  a desk  in  the  Secretary’s 
office  at  Calcutta,  and  labored  there  during  two  years.  Fort 
William  was  then  purely  a commercial  settlement.  In  the 
south  of  India  the  encroaching  policy  of  Dupleix  had  trans- 
formed the  servants  of  the  English  Company,  against  their 
will,  into  diplomatists  and  generals.  The  war  of  the  suc- 
cession was  raging  in  the  Carnatic  ; and  the  tide  had  been 
suddenly  turned  against  the  French  by  the  genius  of  young 
Robert  Clive.  But  in  Bengal  the  European  settlers,  at  peace 
with  the  natives  and  with  each  other,  were  wholly  occupied 
with  ledgers  and  bills  of  lading. 

After  two  years  passed  in  keeping  accounts  at  Calcutta, 
Hastings  was  sent  up  the  country  to  Cossimbazar,  a town 
which  lies  on  the  Iloogley,  about  a mile  from  Moorshedabad, 
and  which  then  bore  to  Moorshedabad  a relation,  if  we 
may  compare  small  things  with  great,  such  as  the  city  of 
London  bears  to  Westminster.  Moorshedabad  was  the 
abode  of  the  prince  who,  by  an  authority  ostensibly  derived 
from  the  Mogul,  but  really  independent,  ruled  the  thro 
great  provinces  of  Bengal,  Orissa,  and  Bahar.  At  Moor- 
shedabad were  the  court,  the  harem,  and  the  public  offices. 
Cossimbazar  was  a port  and  a place  of  trade,  renowned  for 
the  quantity  and  excellence  of  the  silks  which  were  sold  in 
its  marts,  and  constantly  receiving  and  sending  forth  fleets 
of  richly  laden  barges.  At  this  important  point  the  Com- 
pany had  established  a small  factory  subordinate  to  that 
at  Fort  William.  Here,  during  several  years,  Hastings 
was  employed  in  making  bargains  for  stuffs  with  native 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


559 


brokers.  While  he  was  thus  engaged,  Surajah  Dowlah  suc- 
ceeded to  the  Government,  and  declared  war  against  the 
English.  The  defenceless  settlement  of  Cossimbazar,  lying 
close  to  the  tyrant’s  capital,  was  instantly  seized.  Hastings 
was  sent  a prisoner  to  Moorshedabad,  but,  in  consequence 
of  the  humane  intervention  of  the  servants  of  the  Dutch 
Company,  was  treated  with  indulgence.  Meanwhile  the 
Nabob  marched  on  Calcutta;  the  governor  and  the  com- 
mandant fled  ; the  town  and  citadel  were  taken,  and  ni'ost 
of  the  English  prisoners  perished  in  the  Black  Hole. 

In  these  events  originated  the  greatness  of  Warren 
Hastings.  The  fugitive  governor  and  his  conrpanions  had 
taken  refuge  on  the  dreary  islet  of  Fulda,  near  the  mouth 
of  the  Hoogley.  They  were  naturally  desirous  to  obtain 
full  information  respecting  the  proceedings  of  the  Nabob ; 
and  no  person  seemed  so  likely  to  furnish  it  as  Hastings, 
who  was  a prisoner  at  large  in  the  immediate  neighborhood 
of  the  court.  He  thus  became  a diplomatic  agent,  and  soon 
established  a high  character  for  ability  and  resolution.  The 
treason  which  at  a later  period  was  fatal  to  Surajah  Dow- 
lah was  already  in  progress ; and  Hastings  wras  admitted  to 
the  deliberations  of  the  conspirators.  But  the  time  for 
striking  had  not  arrived.  It  was  necessary  to  postpone  the 
execution  of  the  design ; and  Hastings,  who*was  now  in  ex- 
treme peril,  fled  to  Fulda. 

Soon  after  his  arrival  at  Fulda,  the  expedition  from 
Madras,  commanded  by  Clive,  arrived  in  the  Hoogley. 
Warren,  young,  intrepid,  and  excited  probably  by  the  ex- 
ample of  the  Commander  of  the  Forces  wTho,  having  like 
himself  been  a mercantile  agent  of  the  Company,  had  been 
turned  by  public  calamities  into  a soldier,  determined  to 
serve  in  the  ranks.  During  the  early  operations  of  the  wrar 
he  carried  a musket.  But  the  quick  eye  of  Clive  soon  per- 
ceived that  the  head  of  the  young  volunteer  would  be  more 
useful  than  his  arm.  When,  after  the  battle  of  Plassey, 
Meer  Jaffier  was  proclaimed  Nabob  of  Bengal,  Hastings 
was  appointed  to  reside  at  the  court  of  the  new  prince  as 
agent  for  the  Company. 

He  remained  at  Moorshedabad  till  the  year  1761,  when 
he  became  a member  of  Council,  and  was  consequently 
forced  to  reside  at  Calcutta.  This  was  during  the  interval 
between  Clive’s  first  and  second  administration,  an  interval 
which  has  left  on  the  East  India  Company  a stain  not 
wholly  effaced  by  many  years  of  just  and  humane  govern- 


660  MACAtJLAY*S  MTSCfiLLA^EJOtfS  WEltltfGS. 

ment.  Mr.  Yansittart,  the  Governor,  was  at  the  head  of  a 
new  and  anomalous  empire.  On  one  side  was  a band  of 
English  functionaries,  daring,  intelligent,  eager  to  be  rich. 
On  the  other  side  was  a great  native  population,  helpless, 
timid,  accustomed  to  crouch  under  oppression.  To  keep  the 
stronger  race  from  preying  on  the  weaker,  was  an  under- 
taking which  taxed  to  the  utmost  the  talents  and  energy 
of  Clive.  Yansittart,  with  fair  intentions,  was  a feeble 
and  inefficient  ruler.  The  master  caste,  as  was  natural, 
broke  loose  from  all  restraint ; and  then  was  seen  what  we 
•believe  to  be  the  most  frightful  of  all  spectacles,  the  strength 
of  civilization  without  its  mercy.  To  all  other  despotism 
there  is  a check,  imperfect  indeed,  and  liable  to  gross  abuse, 
but  still  sufficient  to  preserve  society  from  the  last  extreme 
of  misery.  A time  comes  when  the  evils  of  submission  are 
obviously  greater  than  those  of  resistance,  when  fear  itself 
begets  a sort  of  courage,  when  a convulsive  burst  of  popular 
rage  and  despair  warns  tyrants  not  to  presume  too  far  on 
the  patience  of  mankind.  But  against  misgovernment  such 
as  then  afflicted  Bengal,  it  was  impossible  to  struggle.  The 
superior  intelligence  and  energy  of  the  dominant  class  made 
their  power  irresistible.  A war  of  Bengalees  against  Eng- 
lishmen was  like  a war  of  sheep  against  wolves,  of  men 
against  daemons.  The  only  protection  which  the  conquered 
could  find  was  in  the  moderation,  the  clemency,  and  the  en- 
larged policy  of  the  conquerors.  That  protection,  at  a later 
period,  they  found.  But  at  first  English  power  came  among 
them  unaccompanied  by  English  morality.  There  was  an 
interval  between  the  time  at  which  they  became  our  siib- 
jects,  and  the  time  at  which  they  began  to  reflect  that  we 
were  bound  to  discharge  towards  them  the  duties  of  rulers. 
During  that  interval  the  business  of  a servant  of  the  Com-  j 
pany  was  simply  to  wring  out  of  the  natives  a hundred  or 
two  hundred  thousand  pounds  as  speedily  as  possible,  that 
he  might  return  home  before  his  constitution  had  suffered 
from  the  heat,  to  many  a peer’s  daughter,  to  buy  rotten 
boroughs  in  Cornwall,  and  to  give  balls  in  St.  James’s 
Square.  Of  the  conduct  of  Hastings  at  this  time  little  is 
known  ; but  the  little  that  is  known,  and  the  circumstance 
that  little  is  known,  must  be  considered  as  honorable  to  him. 

He  could  not  protect  the  natives:  all  that  he  could  do  was 
to  abstain  from  plundering  and  oppressing  them  ; and  this 
he  appears  to  have  done.  It  is  certain  that  at  this  time  no 
continued  poor , and  it  is  equally  certain  that  by  cruelty 


581 


dishonesty  he  might  easily  have  become  rich.  It  is  cer- 
tain that  he  was  never  charged  with  having  borne  a share 
in  the  worst  abuses  which  then  prevailed  ; and  it  is  almost 
equally  certain  that,  if  he  had  borne  a share  in  those  abuses, 
the  able  and  bitter  enemies  who  afterwards  persecuted  him 
would  not  have  failed  to  discover  and  to  proclaim  his  guilt. 
The  keen,  severe,  and  even  malevolent  scrutiny  to  which  his 
whole  public  life  was  subjected,  a scrutiny  unparalleled,  as 
we  believe,  in  the  history  of  mankind,  is  in  one  respect  ad- 
vantageous to  his  reputation.  It  brought  many  lamentable 
blemishes  to  light ; but  it  entitles  him  to  be  considered  pure 
from  every  blemish  which  has  not  been  brought  to  light. 

The  truth  is  that  the  temptations  to  which  so  many  Eng- 
lish functionaries  yielded  in  the  time  of  Mr.  V ansittart  were 
not  temptations  addressed  to  the  ruling  passions  of  Warren 
Hastings.  He  was  not  squeamish  in  pecuniary  transactions; 
but  he  was  neither  sordid  nor  rapacious.  He  was  far  too 
enlightened  a man  to  look  on  a great  empire  merely  as  a 
buccaneer  would  look  on  a galleon.  Had  his  heart  been 
much  worse  than  it  was,  h'is  understanding  would  have  pre- 
served him  from  that  extremity  of  baseness.  He  was  an  un- 
scrupulous, perhaps  an  unprincipled  statesman  ; but  still  he 
was  a statesman,  and  not  a freebooter. 

In  1764  Hastings  returned  to  England.  He  had  realized 
only  a very  moderate  fortune ; and  that  moderate  fortune 
was  soon  reduced  to  nothing,  partly  by  his  praiseworthy 
liberality,  and  partly  by  his  mismanagement.  Towards  his 
relations  he  appears  to  have  acted  very  generously.  Tim 
greater  part  of  his  savings  he  left  in  Bengal,  hoping  proba- 
bly to  obtain  the  high  usury  of  India.  But  high  usury  and 
bad  security  generally  go  together  ; and  Hastings  lost  both 
interest  and  principal. 

He  remained  four  years  in  England.  Of  his  life  at  this 
time  very  little  is  known.  But  it  has  been  asserted,  and  is 
highly  probable,  that  liberal  studies  and  the  society  of  men 
of  letters  occupied  a great  part  of  his  time.  It  is  to  be  re- 
membered to  his  honor  that,  in  days  when  the  languages  of 
the  East  were  regarded  by  other  servants  of  the  Company 
merely  as  the  means  of  communicating  with  weavers  and 
money-changers,  his  enlarged  and  accomplished  mind  sought 
in  Asiatic  learning  for  new  forms  of  intellectual  enjoyment* 
ana  for  n^w  views  of  government  and  society.  Perhaps, 
like  most  persons  who  have  paid  much  attention  to  depart- 
ments of  knowledge  which  lie  out  of  the  common  track,  he 
V OU  II-  Sd 


662  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

was  inclined  to  overrate  the  value  of  his  favorite  studies. 
He  conceived  that  the  cultivation  of  Persian  literature  might 
with  advantage  be  made  a part  of  the  liberal  education 
of  an  English  gentleman ; and  he  drew  up  a plan  with  that 
view.  It  is  said  that  the  University  of  Oxford,  in  which 
Oriental  learning  had  never,  since  the  revival  of  letters,  been 
wholly  neglected,  was  to  be  the  seat  of  the  institution  which 
he  contemplated.  An  endowment  was  expected  from  the 
munificence  of  the  Company;  and  professors  thoroughly 
competent  to  interpret  Hafiz  and  Ferdusi  were  to  be  en- 
gaged in  the  East.  Hastings  called  on  Johnson,  with  the 
hope,  as  it  should  seem,  of  interesting  in  this  project  a man 
who  enjoyed  the  highest  literary  reputation,  and  who  was 
particularly  connected  with  Oxford.  The  interview  appears 
to  have  left  on  Johnson’s  mind  a most  favorable  impression 
of  the  talents  and  attainments  of  his  visitor.  Long  after, 
when  Hastings  was  ruling  the  immense  population  of  Brit- 
ish India,  the  old  philosopher  wrote  to  him,  and  referred  in 
the  most  courtly  terms,  though  with  great  dignity,  to  their 
short  but  agreeable  intercourse. 

Hastings  soon  began  again  to  look  towards  India.  He 
had  little  to  attach  him  to  England;  and  his  pecuniary  em- 
barrassments were  great.  He  solicited  his  old  masters  the 
Directors  for  employment.  They  acceded  to  his  request, 
with  high  compliments  both  to  his  ability  and  to  his  integ- 
rity, and  appointed  him  a Member  of  Council  at  Madras.  It 
would  be  unjust  not  to  mention  that,  though  forced  to  bor- 
row money  for  his  outfit,  he  did  not  withdraw  any  portion 
of  the  sum  which  he  had  appropriated  to  the  relief  of  his 
distressed  relations.  In  the  spring  of  1769  he  embarked  on 
board  of  the  Duke  of  Grafton,  and  commenced  a voyage 
distinguished  by  incidents  which  might  furnish  matter  for  a 
novel. 

Among  the  passengers  in  the  Duke  of  Grafton  was  a 
German  by  the  name  of  Imhoff.  He  called  himself  a Barcn ; 
but  he  was  in  distressed  circumstances,  and  was  going  out 
to  Madras  as  a portrait-painter,  in  the  hope  of  picking  up 
some  of  the  pagodas  which  were  then  lightly  got  and  as 
lightly  spent  by  the  English  in  India.  The  Baron  was  ac- 
companied by  his  wife,  a native,  we  have  somewhere  read, 
of  Archangel.  This  young  woman,  who,  born  under  the 
Arctic  circle,  was  destined  to  play  the  part  of  a Queen  under 
the  tropic  of  Cancer,  had  an  agreeable  person,  a cultivated 
mind,  and  manners  in  the  highest  degree  engaging.  She 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


563 


despised  her  husband  heartily /and,  as  the  story  which  we 
have  to  tell  sufficiently  proves,  not  without  reason.  She 
was  interested  by  the  conversation  and  flattered  by  the  at- 
tentions of  Hastings.  The  situation  was  indeed  perilous. 
No  place  is  so  propitious  to  the  formation  either  of  close 
friendships  or  of  deadly  enmities  as  an  Indiaman.  There 
are  very  few  people  who  do  not  find  a voyage  which  lasts 
several  months  insupportably  dull.  Any  thing  is  welcome 
which  may  break  that  long  monotony,  a sail,  a shark,  an 
albatross,  a man  overboard.  Most  passengers  find  some  re- 
source in  eating  twice  as  many  meals  as  on  land.  But  the 
great  devices  for  killing  the  time  are  quarrelling  and  flirting. 
The  facilities  for  both  these  exciting  pursuits  are  great.  The 
inmates  of  the  ship  are  thrown  together  far  more  than  in 
any  country-seat  or  boarding-house.  None  can  escape  from 
the  rest  except  by  imprisoning  himself  in  a cell  in  which  he  can 
hardly  turn.  All  food,  all  exercise,  is  taken  in  company. 
Ceremony  is  to  a great  extent  banished.  It  is  every  day 
in  the  power  of  a mischievous  person  to  inflict  innumerable 
annoyances.  It  is  every  day  in  the  power  of  an  amiable 
person  to  confer  little  services.  It  not  seldom  happens  that 
serious  distress  and  danger  call  forth,  in  genuine  beauty  and 
deformity,  heroic  virtues  and  abject  vices  which,  in  the  ordi- 
nary intercourse  of  good  society,  might  remain  during  many 
years  unknown  even  to  intimate  associates.  Under  such  cir- 
cumstances met  Warren  Hastings  and  the  Baroness  Imhoff, 
two  persons  whose  accomplishments  would  have  attracted  no- 
tice in  any  court  of  Europe.  The  gentleman  had  no  domestic 
ties.  The  lady  was  tied  to  a husband  for  whom  she  had  no 
regard,  and  who  had  no  regard  for  his  honor.  An  attach- 
ment sprang  up,  which  was  soon  strengthened  by  events 
such  as  could  hardly  have  occurred  on  land.  Hastings  fell 
ill.  The  Baroness  nursed  him  with  womanly  tenderness, 
gave  him  his  medicines  with  her  own  hand,  and  even  set 
up  in  his  cabin  while  he  slept.  Long  before  the  Duke  of 
Grafton  reached  Madras,  Hastings  was  in  love.  But  his 
love  was  of  a most  characteristic  description.  Like  his 
hatred,  like  his  ambition,  like  all  his  passions,  it  was  strong 
but  not  impetuous.  It  was  calm,  deep,  earnest,  patient  of 
delay,  unconquerable  by  time.  Imhoff  was  called  into  coun- 
cil by  his  wife  and  his  wife’s  lover.  It  was  arranged  that 
the  Baroness  should  institute  a suit  for  a divorce  in  the 
courts  of  Franconia,  that  the  Baron  should  afford  every 
facility  to  the  proceeding,  and  that,  during  the  years  which 


564  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

might  elapse  before  the  sentence  should  be  pronounced,  they 
should  continue  to  live  together.  It  was  also  agreed  that 
Hastings  should  bestow  some  very  substantial  marks  of 
gratitude  on  the  complaisant  husband,  and  should,  when  the 
marriage  was  dissolved,  make  the  lady  his  wife,  and  adopt 
the  children  whom  she  had  already  borne  to  Imhoff. 

At  Madras,  Hastings  found  the  trade  of  the  Company 
in  a very  disorganized  state.  His  own  tastes  would  have 
led  him  rather  to  political  than  to  commercial  pursuits  : but 
he  knew  that  the  favor  of  his  employers  depended  chiefly 
on  their  dividends,  and  that  their  dividends  depended  chiefly 
on  the  investment.  He,  therefore,  with  great  judgment,  de- 
termined to  apply  his  vigorous  mind  for  a time  to  this 
department  of  business,  which  had  been  much  neglected, 
since  the  servants  of  the  Company  had  ceased  to  be  clerks, 
and  had  become  warriors  and  negotiators. 

In  a very  few  months  he  effected  an  important  reform. 
The  Directors  notified  to  him  their  high  approbation,  and 
were  so  much  pleased  with  his  conduct  that  they  determined 
to  place  him  at  the  head  of  the  government  of  Bengal.  Early 
in  1772  he  quitted  Fort  St.  George  for  his  new  post.  The 
Imhoff s,  who  were  still  man  and  wife,  accompanied  him, 
and  lived  at  Calcutta  on  the  same  plan  which  they  had  al- 
ready followed  during  more  than  two  years. 

When  Hastings  took  his  seat  at  the  head  of  the  council 
board,  Bengal  was  still  governed  according  to  the  system 
which  Clive  had  devised,  a system  which  was,  perhaps,  skil- 
fully contrived  for  the  purpose  of  facilitating  and  concealing 
a great  revolution,  but  which,  when  that  revolution  was 
complete  and  irrevocable,  could  produce  nothing  but  incon- 
venience. There  were  two  governments,  the  real  and  the 
ostensible.  The  supreme  power  belonged  to  the  Company, 
and  was  in  truth  the  most  despotic  power  that  can  be  con-  i 
ccived.  The  only  restraint  on  the  English  masters  of  the 
oountry  was  that  which  their  own  justice  and  humanity  im-  j 
posed  on  them.  There  was  no  constitutional  check  on  their  \ 
will,  and  resistance  to  them  was  utterly  hopeless. 

But  though  thus  absolute  in  reality,  the  English  had  not 
yet  assumed  the  style  of  sovereignty.  They  held  their  ter-  ■ 
ritories  as  vassals  of  the  throne  of  Delhi ; they  raised  their  > 
revenues  as  collectors  appointed  by  the  imperial  commission ; 
the  public  seal  was  inscribed  with  the  imperial  titles ; and 
their  mint  struck  only  the  imperial  coin. 

There  was  still  a nabob  of  Bengal,  who  stood  to  the  Eng* 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


565 


lish  rulers  of  his  country  in  the  same  relation  in  which  Augus 
tulus  stood  to  Odoacer,  or  the  last  Merovingians  to  Charles 
Martel  and  Pepin.  He  lived  at  Moorshedabad,  surrounded 
by  princely  magnificence.  He  was  approached  with  out- 
ward marks  of  reverence,  and  his  name  was  used  in  public 
instruments.  But  in  the  government  of  the  country  he  had 
less  real  share  than  the  youngest  writer  or  cadet  in  the 
Company’s  service. 

The  English  Council  which  represented  the  Company  at 
Calcutta  was  constituted  on  a very  different  plan  from  that 
which  has  since  been  adopted.  At  present  the  Governor  is, 
as  to  all  executive  measures,  absolute.  He  can  declare  war, 
conclude  peace,  appoint  public  functionaries  or  remove 
them,  in  opposition  to  the  unanimous  sense  of  those  who  sit 
with  him  in  council.  They  are,  indeed,  entitled  to  know  all 
that  is  done,  to  discuss  all  that  is  done,  to  advise,  to  remon- 
strate, to  send  protests  to  England.  But  it  is  with  the  Gov- 
ernor that  the  supreme  power  resides,  and  on  him  that  the 
whole  responsibility  rests.  This  system,  which  was  intro- 
duced by  Mr.  Pitt  and  Mr.  Dundas  in  spite  of  the  strenuous 
opposition  of  Mr.  Burke,  we  conceive  to  be  on  the  whole 
the  best  that  was  ever  devised  for  the  government  of  a coun- 
try where  no  materials  can  be  found  for  a representative 
constitution.  In  the  time  of  Hastings  the  Governor  had 
only  one  vote  in  council,  and,  in  case  of  an  equal  division  a 
casting  vote.  It  therefore  happened  not  unfrequently  that 
he  was  overruled  on  the  gravest  questions  ; and  it  was  pos- 
sible that  he  might  be  wholly  excluded,  for  years  together, 
from  the  real  direction  of  public  affairs. 

The  English  functionaries  at  Fort  William  had  as  yet 
paid  little  or  no  attention  to  the  internal  government  of 
Bengal.  The  only  branch  of  politics  about  which  they  much 
busied  themselves  was  negotiated  with  native  princes.  The 

E)olice,  the  administration  of  justice,  the  details  of  the  col- 
ection of  revenue,  were  almost  entirely  neglected.  We 
may  remark  that  the  phraseology  of  the  Company’s  servants 
still  bears  the  traces  of  this  state  of  things.  To  this  day 
they  always  use  the  word  “ political  ” as  synonymous  with 
“ diplomatic.”  We  could  name  a gentleman  still  living,  who 
was  described  by  the  highest  authority  as  an  invaluable  pub- 
lic servant,  eminently  fit  to  be  at  the  head  of  the  internal 
administration  of  a whole  presidency,  but  unfortunately 
quite  ignorant  of  all  political  business. 

The  internal  government  of  Bengal  the  English  rulers 


566 


MACAULAY*S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


delegate'!  to  a great  native  minister,  who  was  stationed  at 
Moorshcdabad.  All  military  affairs,  and  with  the  exception 
of  what  pertains  to  mere  ceremonial,  all  foreign  affairs,  were 
withdrawn  from  his  control;  but  the  other  departments  of 
the  administration  were  entirely  confided  to  him.  His  own 
stipend  amounted  to  near  a hundred  thousand  pounds  stei- 
ling  a year.  The  personal  allowance  of  the  nabob,  amount- 
ing  to  more  than  three  hundred  thousand  pounds  a year, 
passed  tli rough  the  minister’s  hands  and  was,  to  a great  ex- 
tent, at  liis  disposal.  The  collection  of  the  revenue,  the 
administration  of  justice,  the  maintenance  of  order,  were 
left  to  this  high  functionary ; and  for  the  exercise  of  his  im- 
mense power  he  was  responsible  to  none  but  the  British 
masters  of  the  country. 

A situation  so  important,  lucrative,  and  splendid,  was 
naturally  an  object  of  ambition  to -the  ablest  and  most  pow- 
erful natives.  Clive  had  found  it  difficult  to  decide  between 
conflicting  pretensions.  Two  candidates  stood  out  promi- 
nently from  the  crowd,  each  of  them  the  representative  of  a 
race  and  of  a religion. 

One  of  these  was  Mahommed  Reza  Khan,  a Mussulman 
of  Persian  extraction,  able,  active,  religious  after  the  fashion 
of  his  people,  and  highly  esteemed  by  them.  In  England 
he  might  perhaps  have  been  regarded  as  a corrupt  and 
greedy  politician.  But,  tried  by  the  lower  standard  of  In- 
dian morality,  he  might  be  considered  as  a man  of  integrity 
and  honor. 

His  competitor  was  a Hindoo  Brahmin  whose  name  has, 
* by  a ‘terrible  and  melancholy  event,  been  inseparably  associ- 
ated with  that  of  Warren  Hastings,  the  Maharajah  N unco- 
mar.  This  man  had  played  an  important  part  in  all  the 
revolutions  which,  since  the  time  of  Surajah  Dowlah,  had 
taken  place  in  Bengal.  To  the  consideration  which  in  that 
•country  belongs  to  high  and  pure  caste,  he  added  the  weight 
which  is  derived  from  wealth,  talents,  and  experience.  Of 
ljis  moral  character  it  is  difficult  to  give  a notion  to  those 
who  are  acquainted  with  human  nature  only  as  it  appears  in 
our  island.  What  the  Italian  is  to  the  Englishman,  what  the 
Hindoo  is  to  the  Italian,  what  the  Bengalee  is  to  other  Hin- 
doos, that  was  Nuricomar  to  other  Bengalees.  The  physical 
organization  of  the  Bengalee  is  feeble  even  to  effeminacy. 
He  lives  in  a constant  vapor  bath.  His  pursuits  are  seden- 
tary, his  limbs  delicate,  his  movements  languid.  During 
many  ages  he  has  been  trampied  upon  by  men  of  bolder  and 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


567 


more  hardy  breeds.  Courage,  independence,  veracity,  are 
qualities  to  which  his  constitution  and  his  situation  are 
equally  unfavorable.  His  mind  bears  a singular  analogy  to 
his  body.  It  is  weak  even  to  helplessness  for  purposes  of 
manly  resistance  ; but  its  suppleness  and  its  tact  move  the 
children  of  sterner  climates  to  admiration  not  unminglcd 
with  contempt.  All  those  arts  which  are  the  natural  defence 
of  the  weak  are  more  familiar  to  this  subtle  race  than  to  the 
Ionian  of  the  time  of  Juvenal,  or  to  the  Jew  of  the  dark 
ages.  What  the  horns  are  to  the  buffalo,  what  the  paw  is 
to  the  tiger,  what  the  sting  is  to  the  bee,  what  beauty,  ac- 
cording to  the  old  Greek  song,  is  to  woman,  deceit  is  to  the 
Bengalee.  Large  promises,  smooth  excuses,  elaborate  tissues 
of  circumstantial  falsehood,  chicanery,  perjury,  forgery,  are 
the  weapons,  offensive  and  defensive,  of  the  people  of  the 
Lower  Ganges.  All  those  millions  do  not  furnish  one  sepoy 
to  the  armies  of  the  Company.  But  as  usurers,  as  money- 
changers, as  sharp  legal  practitioners,  no  class  of  human 
beings  can  bear  a comparison  to  them.  With  all  his  soft- 
ness, the  Bengalee  is  by  no  means  placable  in  his  enmities 
or  prone  to  pity.  The  pertinacity  with  which  he  adheres  to 
Ills  purposes  yields  only  to  the  immediate  pressure  of  fear. 
Hor  does  he  lack  a certain  kind  of  courage  which  is  often 
wanting  to  his  masters.  To  inevitable  evils  he  is  sometimes 
found  to  oppose  a passive  fortitude,  such  as  the  Stoics  at- 
tributed to  their  ideal  sage.  An  European  warrior  who 
rushes  on  a battery  of  cannon  with  a loud  hurrah,  will  some- 
times shriek  under  the  surgeon’s  knife,  and  fall  into  an  agony 
of  despair  at  the  sentence  of  death.  But  the  Bengalee,  who 
would  see  his  country  overrun,  his  house  laid  in  ashes,  his 
children  murdered  or  dishonored,  without  having  the  spirit 
to  strike  one  blovr,  has  yet  been  knowrn  to  endure  torture 
with  the  firmness  of  Mucius,  and  to  mount  the  scaffold  with 
the  steady  step  and  even  pulse  ot  Algernon  Sidney. 

In  Nuncomar,  the  national  character  was  strongly  and 
with  exaggeration  personified.  The  Company’s  servants 
had  repeatedly  detected  him  in  the  most  criminal  intrigues. 
On  one  occasion  he  brought  a false  charge  against  another 
Hindoo,  and  tried  to  substantiate  it  by  producing  forged 
documents.  On  another  occasion  it  was  discovered  that 
while  professing  the  strongest  attachment  to  the  English,  he 
was  engaged  in  several  conspiracies  against  them,  and  in 
particular  that  he  was  the  medium  of  a correspondence  be- 
tween the  court  of  Delhi  and  the  French  authorities  in  the 


&6S  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  waitings. 

Carnatic.  For  these  and  similar  practices  lie  had  been  lorn* 
detained  in  confinement.  But  his  talents  and  influence  hacl 
not  only  procured  his  liberation,  but  had  obtained  for  him 
a certain  degree  of  consideration  even  among  the  British 
rulers  of  his  country. 

Clive  was  extremely  unwilling  to  place  a Mussulman  at 
the  head  of  the  administration  of  Bengal.  On  the  other 
hand,  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  confer  immense  power 
on  a man  to  whom  every  sort  of  villainy  had  been  repeat- 
edly brought  home.  Therefore,  though  the  nabob,  over 
whom  Nuncomar  had  by  intrigue  acquired  great  influence, 
begged  that  the  artful  Hindoo  might  be  intrusted  with  the 
government,  Clive,  after  some  hesitation,  decided  honestly 
and  wisely  in  favor  of  Mahommed  Reza  Khan.  When  Has- 
tings became  Governor,  Mahommed  Reza  Khan  had  held 
power  seven  years.  An  infant  son  of  Meer  Jaffier  was  now 
nabob ; and  the  guardianship  of  the  young  prince’s  person 
had  been  confided  to  the  minister. 

Nuncomar,  stimulated  at  once  by  cujudity  and  malice, 
had  been  constantly  attempting  to  hurt  the  reputation  of 
his  successful  rival.  This  was  not  difficult.  The  revenues 
of  Bengal,  under  the  administration  established  by  Clive, 
did  not  yield  such  a surplus  as  had  been  anticipated  by  the 
Company ; for,  at  that  time,  the  most  absurd  notions  were 
entertained  in  England  respecting  the  wealth  of  India. 
Palaces  of  porphyry,  hung  with  the  richest  brocade,  heaps 
of  pearls  and  diamonds,  vaults  from  which  pagodas  of  gold 
and  mohurs  were  measured  out  by  the  bushel,  filled  the  im- 
agination even  of  men  of  business.  Nobody  seemed  to  be 
aware  of  what  nevertheless  was  most  undoubtedly  the  truth, 
that  India  was  a poorer  country  than  countries  which  in 
Europe  are  reckoned  poor,  than  Ireland,  for  example*  or 
than  Portugal.  It  was  confidently  believed  by  Lords  of  the 
Treasury  and  members  for  the  city  that  Bengal  would  not 
only  defray  its  own  charges,  but  would  afford  an  increased 
dividend  to  the  proprietors  of  India  stock,  and  large  relief 
to  the  English  finances.  These  absurd  expectations  were 
disappointed;  and  the  Directors,  naturally  enough,  chose  to 
attribute  the  disappointment  rather  to  the  mismanagement 
of  Mahommed  Reza  Kahn  than  to  their  own  ignorance  of 
the  country  intrusted  to  their  care.  They  were  confirmed 
in  their  error  by  the  agents  of  Nuncomar ; for  Nuncomar  ' 
had  agents  even  in  Leaden  hall  Street.  Soon  after  Hastings  ; 
reached  Calcutta,  he  received  a letter  addressed  by  the  Court 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


669 


of  Directors,  not  to  the  council  generally  but  to  himself  in 
particular.  He  was  directed  to  remove  Mahommed  Reza 
Kahn,  to  arrest  him  together  with  ail  his  family  and  all  his 
partisans,  and  to  institute  a strict  inquiry  into  the  whole 
administration  of  the  province.  It  was  added  that  the 
Governor  would  do  well  to  avail  himself  of  the  assistance  of 
Nuncomar  in  the  investigation.  The  vices  of  Nuncomar 
were  acknowledged.  But  even  from  his  vices,  it  was  said, 
much  advantage  might  at  such  a conjuncture  be  derived, 
and,  though  he  could  not  be  safely  trusted,  it  might  still  be 
proper  to  encourage  him  by  hopes  of  reward. 

The  Governor  bore  no  good  will  to  Nuncomar.  Many 
years  before  they  had  known  each  other  at  Moorshedabad; 
and  then  a quarrel  had  arisen  between  them  which  all  the 
authority  of  their  superiors  could  hardly  compose.  Widely 
as  they  differed  in  most  points,  they  resembled  each  other 
in  this,  that  both  were  men  of  unforgiving  natures.  To 
Mahommed  Reza  Kahn,  on  the  other  hand,  Hastings  had  no 
feelings  of  hostility.  Nevertheless  he  proceeded  to  exe- 
cute the  instructions  of  the  Company  with  an  alacrity  which 
he  never  showed,  except  when  instructions  were  in  perfect 
conformity  with  his  own  views.  He  had,  wisely  as  we  think, 
determined  to  get  rid  of  the  system  of  double  government 
in  Bengal.  The  orders  of  the  directors  furnished  him  with 
the  means  of  effecting  his  purpose,  and  dispensed  him  from 
the  necessity  of  discussing  the  matter  with  his  Council.  He 
took  his  measures  with  his  usual  vigor  and  dexterity  At 
midnight,  the  palace  of  Mahommed  Reza  Kahn  at  Moorshed- 
abad was  surrounded  by  a battalion  of  sepoys.  The  min- 
ister was  roused  from  his  slumbers  and  informed  that  he  was 
a prisoner.  With  the  Mussulman  gravity,  he  bent  his  head 
and  submitted  himself  to  the  will  of  God.  He  fell  not 
alone,  A chief  named  Scliitab  Roy  had  been  intrusted 
with  the  government  of  Bahar.  Ills  valor  and  his  attach- 
ment to  the  English  had  more  than  once  been  signally 

1 moved.  On  that  memorable  day  on  which  the  people  of 
?atna  saw  from  their  wall  the  whole  army  of  the  Mogul 
scattered  by  the  little  band  of  Captain  Knox,  the  voice  of 
the  British  conquerors  assigned  the  palm  of  gallantry  to  the 
brave  Asiatic.  “I  never,”  said  Knox,  when  he  introduced 
Schitab  Roy,  covered  with  blood  and  dust,  to  the  English 
functionaries  assembled  in  the  factory,  “ I never  saw  a na- 
tive fight  so  before.”  Schitab  Roy  was  involved  in  the  rum 
of  Mahommed  Reza  Kahn,  was  removed  from  office  and  was 


570 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


placed  under  arrest.  The  members  of  the  Council  received 
no  intimation  of  these  measures  till  the  prisoners  were  on 
their  road  to  Calcutta. 

The  inquiry  into  the  conduct  of  the  minister  was  post- 
poned on  different  pretences.  He  was  detained  in  an  easy 
confinement  during  many  months.  In  the  mean  time,  the 
great  revolution  which  Hastings  had  planned  was  carried  into 
effect.  The  office  of  minister  was  abolished.  The  internal 
administration  was  transferred  to  the  servants  of  the  Com- 
pany. A system,  a very  imperfect  system,  it  is  true,  of  civil 
and  criminal  justice,  under  English  superintendence,  was 
established.  The  nabob  was  no  longer  to  have  even  an  os- 
tensible share  in  the  government ; but  he  w~as  still  to  re- 
ceive a considerable  annual  allowance,  and  to  be  surrounded 
with  the  state  of  sovereignty.  As  he  was  an  infant,  it  was 
necessary  to  provide  guardians  for  his  person  and  property. 
His  person  was  intrusted  to  a lady  of  his  father’s  harem, 
known  by  the  name  of  Munny  Begum.  The  office  of  treas- 
urer of  the  household  was  bestowed  on  a son  of  Nuncomar, 
named  Goordas.  Nuncomar’s  services  were  wanted  ; yet  he 
could  not  safely  be  trusted  with  power;  and  Hastings 
thought  it  a masterstroke  of  policy  to  reward  the  able 
and  unprincipled  parent  by  promoting  the  inoffensive 
child. 

The  revolution  completed,  the  double  government  dis- 
solved, the  Company  installed  in  the  full  sovereignty  of 
Bengal,  Hastings  had  no  motive  to  treat  the  late  ministers 
with  rigor.  Their  trial  had  been  put  off  on  various  pleas 
till  the  new  organization  was  complete.  They  were  then 
brought  before  a committee,  over  which  the  Governor  pre- 
sided. Schitab  Roy  was  speedily  acquitted  with  honor.  A 
formal  apology  was  made  to  him  for  the  restraint  to  which 
he  had  been  subjected.  All  the  Eastern  marks  of  respect 
were  bestowed  on  him.  He  was  clothed  in  a robe  of  state, 
presented  with  jewels  and  with  a richly  harnessed  elephant, 
and  sent  back  to  his  government  at  Patna.  But  his  health 
had  suffered  from  confinement ; his  high  spirit  had  been 
cruelly  wounded ; and  soon  after  his  liberation  he  died  of  a 
broken  heart. 

The  innocence  of  Mahommed  Reza  Kahn  was  not  so 
clearly  established.  But  the  Governor  was  not  disposed  to 
deal  harshly.  After  a long  hearing,  in  which  Nuncomar  ap- 
peared as  the  accuser,  and  displayed  both  the  art  and  the 
inveterate  rancor  which  distinguished  him,  Hastings  pro* 


WAKKEX  HASTINGS. 


571 


nounced  that  the  charge  had  not  been  made  out,  and  or- 
dered the  fallen  minister  to  be  set  at  liberty. 

Nuncomar  had  purposed  to  destroy  the  Mussulman  ad- 
ministration, and  to  rise  on  its  ruin.  Both  his  malevolence 
and  his  cupidity  had  been  disappointed.  Hastings  had 
made  him  a tool,  had  used  him  for  the  purpose  of  accom- 
plishing the  transfer  of  the  government  from  Moorshedabad 
to  Calcutta,  from  native  to  European  hands.  The  rival,  the 
enemy,  so  long  envied,  so  implacably  persecuted,  had  been 
dismissed  unhurt.  The  situation  so  long  and  ardently  de- 
sired had  been  abolished.  It  was  natural  that  the  Governor 
should  be  from  that  time  an  object  of  the  most  intense 
hatred  to  the  vindictive  Brahmin.  As  yet,  however,  it  was 
necessary  to  suppress  such  feelings.  The  time  was  coming 
when  tli at  long  animosity  was  to  end  in  a desperate  and 
deadly  struggle. 

In  the  mean  time,  Hastings  was  compelled  to  turn  his  at- 
tention to  foreign  affairs.  The  object  of  his  diplomacy  was 
at  this  time  simply  to  get  money.  The  finances  of  his  gov- 
ernment were  in  an  embarrassed  state,  and  this  embarrass- 
ment he  was  determined  to  relieve  by  some  means,  fair  oi 
foul.  The  principle  which  directed  all  his  dealings  with  his 
neighbors  is  fully  expressed  by  the  old  motto  of  one  of  the 
great  predatory  families  of  Teviotdale,  “ Thou  shalt  want 
ere  I want.”  He  seems  to  have  laid  it  down,  as  a funda- 
mental  proposition  which  could  not  be  disjiutecl,  that,  when 
he  had  not  as  many  lacs  of  rupees  as  the  public  service  re- 
quired, he  was  to  take  them  from  anybody  who  had.  One 
tiling,  indeed,  is  to  be  said  in  excuse  for  him.  The  pressure 
applied  to  him  by  his  employers  at  home,  was  such  that  only 
the  highest  virtue  could  have  withstood,  such  as  left  him  no 
choice  except  to  commit  great  wrongs,  or  to  resign  his  high 
post,  a_id  with  that  post  all  his  hopes  of  fortune  and  distinc- 
tion. The  Directors,  it  is  true,  never  enjoined  or  applauded 
any  crime.  Far  from  it.  Whoever  examines  their  letters 
written  at  that  time  will  find  there  many  just  and  humane 
sentiments,  many  excellent  precepts,  in  short,  an  admirable 
code  of  political  ethics.  But  every  exhortation  is  modified 
or  nullified  by  a demand  for  money.  “ Govern  leniently, 
and  send  more  money ; practise  strict  justice  and  modera- 
tion towards  neighboring  powers,  and  send  more  money ; ” 
this  is  in  truth  the  sum  of  almost  all  the  instructions  that 
Hastings  ever  received  from  home.  Now  these  instructions, 
being  interpreted,  mean  simply,  “ Be  the  father  and  the  op* 


572  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

pressor  of  the  people  ; be  just  and  unjust,  moderate  and  ra- 
pacious.” The  Directors  dealt  with  India,  as  the  church, 
in  the  good  old  times,  dealt  with  a heretic.  They  delivered 
the  victim  over  to  the  executioners,  with  an  earnest  request 
that  all  possible  tenderness  might  be  shown.  We  by  no 
means  accuse  or  suspect  those  who  framed  these  despatches 
of  hypocrisy.  It  is  probable  that,  writing  fifteen  thousand 
miles  from  the  place  where  their  orders  were  to  be  carried 
into  effect,  they  never  perceived  the  gross  inconsistency  of 
which  they  were  guilty.  But  the  inconsistency  was  at  once 
manifest  to  their  vicegerent  at  Calcutta,  who,  with  an  empty 
treasury,  with  an  unpaid  army,  with  his  own  salary  often  in 
arrear,  with  deficient  crops,  with  government  tenants  daily 
running  away,  was  called  upon  to  remit  home  another  half 
million  without  fail.  Hastings  saw  that  it  was  absolutely 
necessary  for  him  to  disregard  either  the  moral  discourses 
or  the  pecuniary  requisitions  of  his  employers.  Being  forced 
to  disobey  them  in  something,  he  had  to  consider  what  kind 
of  disobedience  they  would  most  readily  pardon ; and  he 
correctly  judged  that  the  safest  course  would  be  to  neglect 
the  sermons  and  find  the  rupees. 

A mind  so  fertile  as  his,  and  so  little  restrained  by  con- 
scientious scruples,  speedily  discovered  several  modes  of  re- 
lieving the  financial  embarrassments  of  the  government. 
The  allowance  of  the  Nabob  of  Bengal  was  reduced  at  a 
stroke  from  three  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  pounds  a 
year  to  half  that  sum.  The  Company  had  bound  itself  to 
pay  near  three  hundred  thousand  pounds  a year  to  the 
Great  Mogul,  as  a mark  of  homage  for  the  provinces  which 
he  had  intrusted  to  their  care ; and  they  had  ceded  to  him 
the  districts  of  Corah  and  Allahabad.  On  the  plea  that  the 
Mogul  was  not  really  independent,  but  merely  a tool  in  the 
hands  of  others,  Hastings  determined  to  retract  these  con- 
cessions. He  accordingly  declared  that  the  English  would 
pay  no  more  tribute,  and  sent  troops  to  occupy  Allahabad 
and  Corah.  The  situation  of  these  places  was  such,  that 
there  would  be  little  advantage  and  great  expense  in  retain- 
ing them.  Hastings,  who  wanted  money  and  not  territory, 
determined  to  sell  them.  A purchaser  was  not  wanting. 
The  rich  province  of  Oude  had,  in  the  general  dissolution  of 
the  Mogul  Empire,  fallen  to  the  share  of  the  great  Mussul- 
man house  by  which  it  is  still  governed.  About  twenty 
years  ago,  this  house,  by  the  permission  of  the  British  gov- 
ernment, assumed  the  royal  title  \ but  in  the  time  of  W ar* 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


573 


ren  Hastings  such  an  assumption  would  have  been  con- 
sidered by  the  Mahommedans  of  India  as  a monstrous  im- 
piety. The  Prince  of  Oude,  though  he  held  the  power,  did 
not  venture  to  use  the  style  of  sovereignty.  To  the  appel 
lation  of  Nabob  or  Viceroy,  he  added  that  of  Vizier  of  the 
monarchy  of  Hindostan,  just  as  in  the  last  century  the 
Electors  of  Saxony  and  Brandenburg,  though  independent  ol 
the  Emperor,  and  often  in  arms  against  him,  were  proud  to 
style  themselves  his  Grand  Chamberlain  and  Grand  Marshal. 
Sujah  Dowlah,  then  Nabob  Vizier,  was  on  excellent  terms 
with  the  English.  He  had  a large  treasure.  Allahabad  and 
Corah  were  so  situated  that  they  might  be  of  use  to  him 
and  could  be  of  none  to  the  Company.  The  buyer  and 
seller  soon  came  to  an  understanding ; and  the  provinces 
which  had  been  torn  from  the  Mogul  were  made  over 
to  the  government  of  Oude  for  about  half  a million 
sterling. 

But  there  was  another  matter  still  more  important  to  be 
settled  by  the  Vizier  and  the  Governor.  The  fate  of  a brave 
people  was  to  be  decided.  It  was  decided  in  a manner 
which  has  left  a lasting  stain  oh  the  fame  of  Hastings  and 
of  England. 

The  people  of  Central  Asia  had  always  been  to  the  in- 
habitants of  India  what  the  warriors  of  the  German  forests 
were  to  the  subjects  of  the  decaying  monarchy  of  Rome. 
The  dark,  slender,  and  timid  Hindoo  shrank  from  a conflict 
with  the  strong  muscle  and  resolute  spirit  of  the  fair  race, 
which  dwelt  beyond  the  passes.  There  is  reason  to  believe 
that,  at  a period  anterior  to  the  dawn  of  regular  history, 
the  people  .who  spoke  the  rich  and  flexible  Sanscrit  came 
from  regions  lying  far  beyond  the  Hyphasis  and  the  Hys- 
taspes,  and  imposed  their  yoke  on  the  children  of  the  soil. 
It  is  certain  that,  during  the  last  ten  centuries,  a succession 
of  invaders  descended  from  the  west  on  Hindostan ; nor 
was  the  course  of  conquest  ever  turned  back  towards  the 
setting  sun,  till  that  memorable  campaign  in  which  the  cross 
of  Saint  George  was  planted  on  the  walls  >i  Ghizni. 

The  Emperors  of  Jnindostan  themselves  came  from  the 
other  side  of  the  Great  Mountain  ridge  ; and  it  had  always 
been  their  practice  to  recruit  their  army  from  the  hardy  and 
valiant  race  from  which  their  own  illustrious  house  sprang. 
Among  the  military  adventurers  who  were  allured  to  the 
Mogul  standards  from  the  neighborhood  of  Cabul  and 
Candahar,  were  conspicuous  several  gallant  bands,  known 


674 


macaulay’r  miscellaneous  writings. 


by  the  name  of  Rohillas.  Their  services  had  been  rewarded 
with  large  tracts  of  land,  fiefs  of  the  spear,  if  we  may  use 
an  expression  drawn  from  an  analogous  state  of  things,  in 
that  fertile  plain  through  whinh  the  Ramgunga  flows  from 
the  snowy  heights  of  Kumaon  to  join  the  Ganges.  In  the 
general  confusion  which  followed  the  death  of  Aurungzebe, 
the  warlike  colony  became  virtually  independent.  The 
Rohillas  were  distinguished  from  the  other  inhabitants  of 
India  by  a peculiarly  fair  complexion.  They  were  more 
honorably  distinguished  by  courage  in  war,  and  by  skill  in 
the  arts  of  peace.  While  anarchy  raged  from  Lahore  to 
Cape  Comorin,  their  little  territory  enjoyed  the  blessings  of 
repose  under  the  guardianship  of  valor.  Agriculture  and 
commerce  flourished  among  them  ; nor  were  they  negligent 
of  rhetoric  and  poetry.  Many  persons  now  living  have 
heard  aged  men  talk  with  regret  of  the  golden  days  when 
the  Afghan  princes  ruled  in  the  vale  of  Rohilcund.  ' 

Sujah  Dowlah  had  set  his  heart  on  adding  this  rich  dis- 
trict to  his  own  principality.  Right  or  show  of  right,  he 
had  absolutely  none.  His  claim  was  in  no  respect  better 
founded  than  that  of  Catherine  to  Poland,  or  that  of  the 
Bonaparte  family  to  Spain.  The  Rohillas  held  their  coun- 
try by  exactly  the  same  title  by  which  he  held  his,  and  had 
governed  their  country  far  better  than  his  had  ever  been 
governed.  Nor  were  they  a people  whom,  it  was  perfectly 
safe  to  attack.  Their  land  was  indeed  an  open  plain  desti- 
ute  of  natural  defences;  but  their  veins  were  full  of  the 
high  blood  of  Afghanistan.  As  soldiers,  they  had  not  the 
steadiness  which  is  seldom  found  except  in  company  with 
strict  discipline  ; but  their  impetuous  valor  had  been  proved 
on  many  fields  of  battle.  It  was  said  that  their  chiefs,  when 
united  by  common  peril,  could  bring  eighty  thousand  men 
into  the  field.  Sujah  Dowlah  had  himself  sejen  them  fight, 
and  wisely  shrank  from  a conflict  with  them.  There  was  in 
India  one  army,  and  only  one,  against  which  even  those 
proud  Caucasian  tribes  could  not  stand.  It  had  been 
abundantly  proved  that  neither  tenfold  odds,  nor  the  martial 
ardor  of  the  boldest  Asiatic  nations,  could  avail  aught  against 
English  science  and  resolution.  Was  it  possible  to  induce 
the  Governor  of  Bengal  to  let  out  to  hire  the  irresistible 
energies  of  the  imperial  people,  the  skill  against  which  the 
ablest  chiefs  of  Hindostan  were  helpless  as  infants,  the  dis- 
cipline which  had  so  often  triumphed  over  the  frantic  strug- 
gles of  fanaticism  and  despair,  the  unconquerable  British 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


575 


courage  which  is  never  so  sedate  and  stubborn  as  towards 
the  close  of  a doubtful  and  murderous  day  ? 

This  was  what  the  Nabob  Vizier  asked,  and  what  Has- 
tings granted.  A bargain  was  soon  struck.  Each  of  the 
negotiators  had  what  the  other  wanted.  Hastings  was  in 
need  of  funds  to  carry  on  the  government  of  Bengal,  and  to 
send  remittances  to  London ; and  Sujah  Dowlah  had  an 
ample  revenue.  Sujah  Dowlah  was  bent  on  subjugating 
the  Rohillas ; and  Hastings  had  at  his  disposal  the  only  force 
by  which  the  Rohillas  could  be  subjugated.  It  was  agreed 
that  an  English  army  should  be  lent  to  the  Nabob  Vizier, 
and  that,  for  the  loan,  he  should  pay  four  hundred  thousand 
pounds  sterling,  besides  defraying  all  the  charge  of  the 
troops  while  employed  in  his  service. 

“I  really  cannot  see,”  says  Mr.  Gleig,  “upon  what 
grounds,  either  of  political  or  moral  justice,  this  proposition 
deserves  to  be  stigmatized  as  infamous.”  If  we  understand 
the  meaning  of  words,  it  is  infamous  to  commit  a wicked 
action  for  hire,  and  it  is  wicked  to  engage  in  war  without 
provocation.  In  this  particular  war,  scarcely  one  ag- 
gravating circumstance  was  wanting.  The  object  of  the 
Rohilla  war  w^as  this,  to  deprive  a large  population,  who  had 
never  done  us  the  least  harm,  of  a good  government,  and  to 
place  them,  against  their  will,  under  an  execrably  bad  one. 
Nay,  even  this  is  not  all.  England  now  descended  far  be- 
low the  level  even  of  those  petty  German  princes  who, 
about  the  same  time,  sold  us  troops  to  fight  the  Americans. 
The  hussar-mongers  of  Hesse  and  Anspach  had  at  least  the 
assurance  that  the  expeditions  on  which  their  soldiers  were 
to  be  employed  would  be  conducted  in  conformity  with  the 
humane  rules  of  civilized  warfare.  Was  the  Rohilla  war 
likely  to  be  so  conducted  ? Did  the  Governor  stipulate  that 
it  should  be  so  conducted?  He  well  knew  what  Indian 
warfare  was.  He  well  knew  that  the  power  which  he 
covenanted  to  put  into  Sujah  Dowlah’s  hands  would,  in  all 
probability,  be  atrociously  abused ; and  he  required  no 
guarantee,  no  promise  that  it  should  not  be  so  abused.  He 
did  not  even  reserve  to  himself  the  right  of  withdrawing  his 
aid  in  case  of  abuse,  however  gross.  We  are  almost 
ashamed  to  notice  Major  Scott’s  plea,  that  Hastings  was 

{'ustified  in  letting  out  English  troops  to  slaughter  the 
iohillas,  because  the  Rohillas  were  not  of  Indian  race,  but 
a colony  from  a distant  country.  What  were  the  English 
themselves  ? Was  *t  for  them  to  proclaim  a crusade  for  the 


576 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


expulsion  of  all  intruders  from  the  countries  watered  by  the 
Ganges  ? Did  it  lie  in  their  mouths  to  contend  that  a for- 
eign settler  who  establishes  an  empire  in  India  is  a caput 
lupinum  f What  would  they  have  said  if  any  other  power 
had,  on  such  a ground,  attacked  Madras  or  Calcutta,  with- 
out the  slightest  provocation  ? Such  a defence  was  want- 
ing to  make  the  infamy  of  the  transaction  complete.  The 
atrocity  of  the  crime,  and  the  hypocrisy  of  the  apology,  are 
worthy  of  each  other. 

One  of  the  three  brigades  of  which  the  Bengal  army 
consisted  was  sent  under  Colonel  Champion  to  join  Sujali 
Dowlah’s  forces.  The  Rohillas  expostulated,  entreated, 
offered  a large  ransom,  but  in  vain.  They  then  resolved  to 
defend  themselves  to  the  last.  A bloody  battle  was  fought. 
“The  enemy,”  says  Colonel  Champion,  “gave  proof  of 
a good  share  of  military  knowledge ; and  it  was  impossible 
to  describe  a more  obstinate  firmness  of  resolution  than  they 
displayed.”  The  dastardly  sovereign  of  Oude  fled  from  the 
field.  The  English  were  left  unsupported ; but  their  fire 
and  their  charge  were  irresistible.  It  was  not,  however,  till 
the  most  distinguished  chiefs  had  fallen,  fighting  bravely  at 
the  head  of  their  troops,  that  the  Rohilla  ranks  gave  way. 
Then  the  Nabob  Vizier  and  his  rabble  made  their  appear- 
ance, and  hastened  to  plunder  the  camp  of  the  valiant 
enemies,  whom  they  had  never  dared  to  look  in  the  face. 
The  soldiers  of  the  Company,  trained  in  an  exact  discipline, 
kept  unbroken  order,  while  the  tents  were  pillaged  by  these 
worthless  allies.  But  many  voices  were  heard  to  exclaim, 
“ We  have  had  all  the  fighting,  and  those  rogues  are  to  have 
all  the  profit.” 

Then  the  horrors  of  Indian  war  were  let  loose  on  the 
fair  valleys  and  cities  of  Rohilcund.  The  whole  country 
was  in  a blaze.  More  than  a hundred  thousand  people 
fled  from  their  homes  to  pestilential  jungles,  preferring 
famine,  and  fever,  and  the  haunts  of  tigers,  to  the  tyranny 
of  him,  to  whom  an  English  and  a Christian  government 
had,  lor  shameful  lucre,  sold  their  substance,  and  their  blood, 
and  the  honor  of  their  wives  and  daughters.  Colonel  Cham- 
pion remonstrated  with  the  Nabob  Vizier,  and  sent  strong 
representations  to  Fort  William ; but  the  Governor  had 
made  no  conditions  as  to  the  mode  in  which  the  war  was  to 
be  carried  on.  lie  had  troubled  himself  about  nothing  but 
his  forty  lacs ; and,  though  he  might  disapprove  of  Sujali 
Dowlah’s  wanton  barburitv,  ho  did  not  think  himself  entir 


s 


WAEHEN  HASTINGS. 


m 


tied  to  interfere,  except  by  offering  advice.  This  delicacy 
excites  the  admiration  of  the  biographer.  “ Mr.  Hastings,” 
he  says,  “ could  not  himself  dictate  to  the  Nabob,  nor  per- 
mit the  commander  of  the  Company’s  troops  to  dictate  how 
the  war  was  to  be  carried  on.”  No,  to  be  sure.  Mr.  Has- 
tings had  only  to  put  down  by  main  force  the  brave  struggles 
of  innocent  men  fighting  for  their  liberty.  Their  military 
resistance  crushed,  his  duties  ended  ; and  he  had  then  only 
to  fold  his  arms  and  look  on,  while  their  villages  were 
burned,  their  children  butchered,  and  their  women  violated. 
Will  Mr.  Gleig  seriously  maintain  this  opinion  ? Is  any 
rule  more  plain  than  this,  that  whoever  voluntarily  gives  to 
another  irresistible  power  over  human  beings  is  bound  to 
take  order  that  such  power  shall  not  be  barbarously  abused  ? 
But  we  beg  pardon  of  our  readers  for  arguing  a point  so 
clear. 

We  hasten  to  the  end  of  this  sad  and  disgraceful  story. 
The  war  ceased.  The  finest  population  in  India  was  subjected 
to  a greedy,  cowardly,  cruel  tyrant.  Commerce  and  agricul- 
ture languished.  The  rich  province  which  had  tempted  the 
cupidity  of  Sujah  Dowlah  became  the  most  miserable  part  of 
his  miserable  dominions.  Yet  is  the  injured  nation  not  extinct. 
At  long  intervals  gleams  of  its  ancient  spirit  have  flashed 
forth  ; and  even  at  this  day,  valor,  and  self-respect,  and  a 
chivalrous  feeling  rare  among  Asiatics,  and  a bitter  remem- 
brance of  the  great  crime  of  England,  distinguish  that  noble 
Afghan  race.  To  this  day  they  are  regarded  as  the  best  of 
all  sepoys  at  the  cold  steel ; and  it  was  very  recently  re- 
marked, by  one  who  had  enjoyed  great  opportunities  of 
observation,  that  the  only  natives  of  India  to  whom  the 
word  “ gentleman  ” can  with  perfect  propriety  be  applied, 
are  tc  be  found  among  the  Rohillas. 

Whatever  we  may  think  of  the  morality  of  Hastings,  it 
cannot  be  denied  that  the  financial  results  of  his  policy  did 
honor  to  his  talents.  In  less  than  two  years  after  he  as- 
sumed the  government,  he  had,  without  imposing  any  ad- 
ditional burdens  on  the  people  subject  to  his  authority, 
added  about  four  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  pounds  to  the 
annual  income  of  the  Company,  besides  procuring  about  a 
million  in  ready  money.  He  had  also  relieved  the  finances 
of  Bengal  from  military  expenditure,  amounting  to  near  a 
quarter  of  a million  a year,  and  had  thrown  that  charge  on 
the  Nabob  of  Oude.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  this  was 
a result  which,  i.  ' ; hr.  .sen  obtained  by  honest  means. 
Von.  II.- 


578 


&ACAtLAlT*S  MtSCSttAKfiOtTS  WItmKGS. 


would  have  entitled  him  to  the  warmest  gratitude  of  hia 
country,  and  which,  by  whatever  means  obtained,  proved 
that  lie  possessed  great  talents  for  administration. 

In  the  mean  time,  Parliament  had  been  engaged  in  long 
and  grave  discussions  on  Asiatic  affairs.  The  ministry  of 
Lord  North,  in  the  session  of  1773,  introduced  a measure 
which  made  a considerable  change  in  the  constitution  of  the 
Indian  government.  This  law,  known  by  the  name  of  the 
liegulating  Act,  provided  that  the  presidency  of  Bengal 
should  exercise  a control  over  the  other  possessions  of  the 
Company;  that  the  chief  of  that  presidency  should  be 
styled  Governor-General ; that  he  should  be  assisted  by  four 
Councillors ; and  that  a supreme  court  of  judicature,  con- 
sisting of  a chief  justice  and  three  inferior  judges,  sliouldbe 
established  at  Calcutta.  This  court  was  made  independent 
of  the  Governor-General  and  Council,  and  was  intrusted 
with  a civil  and  criminal  jurisdiction  of  immense  and,  at 
the  same  time,  of  undefined  extent. 

The  Governor-General  and  Councillors  were  named  in  jj 
the  act,  and  were  to  hold  their  situations  for  five  years. 
Hastings  was  to  be  the  first  Governor-General.  One  of  the  1 
four  new  Councillors,  Mr.  Barwell,  an  experienced  servant 
of  the  Company,  was  then  in  India.  T17e  other  three,  Gen- 
eral Clavering,  Mr.  Monson,  and  Mr.  Francis,  were  sent  out 
from  England. 

The  ablest  of  the  new  Councillors  wras,  beyond  all  doubt, 
Philip  Francis.  His  acknowledged  compositions  proved 
that  he  possessed  considerable  eloquence  and  information. 
Several  years  passed  in  the  public  offices  had  formed  him 
to  habits  of  business.  Ilis  enemies  have  never  denied  that 
he  had  a fearless  and  manly  spirit;  and  his  friends,  we  are 
afraid,  must  acknowledge  that  his  estimate  of  himself  was 
extravagantly  high,  that  his  temper  was  irritable,  that  his 
deportment  was  often  rude  and  petulant,  and  that  his  hatred 
was  of  intense  bitterness  and  long  duration. 

It  is  scarcely  possible  to  mention  this  eminent  man 
without  adverting  for  a moment  to  the  question  which  his 
name  at  once  suggests  to  every  mind.  Was  he  the  author 
of  the  Letters  of  Junius?  Our  own  firm  belief  is  that  he 
•was.  The  evidence  is,  we  think,  such  as  wrould  support  a ; 
verdict  in  a civil,  nay,  in  a criminal  proceeding.  The  hand- 
writing of  Junius  is  the  very  peculiar  handwriting  of  Fran- 
cis, slightly  disguised.  As  to  the  position,  pursuits,  and 
connections  of  Junius,  the  following  are  the  most  important 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


579 

facts  which  can  be  considered  as  clearly  proved;  first  that  he 
was  acquainted  with  the  technical  forms  of  the  secretary 
of  state's  office;  secondly,  that  he  was  intimately  acquainted 
with  the  business  of  the  war  office;  thirdly,  that  he,  dur- 
ing the  year  1770,  attended  debates  in  the  House  of  Lords, 
and  took  notes  of  speeches,  particularly  of  the  speeches  of 
Lord  Chatham;  fourthly,  that  he  bitterly  resented  the  ap- 
pointment of  Mr.  Chamier  to  the  place  of  deputy  secretary- 
at-war;  fifthly,  that  he  was  bound  by  some  strongtieto  the 
first  Lord  Holland.  Now,  Francis  passed  some  years  in 
the  secretary  of  state's  office.  He  was  subsequently  chief 
clerk  of  the  war  office.  He  repeatedly  mentioned  that  he 
had  himself,  in  1770,  heard  speeches  of  Lord  Chatham;  and 
some  of  these  speeches  were  actually  printed  from  his 
notes.  He  resigned  his  clerkship  at  the  war-office  from 
resentment  at  the  appointment  of  Mr.  Chamier.  It  was 
by  Lord  Holland  that  he  was  first  introduced  into  the  pub- 
lic service.  Now,  here  are  five  marks,  all  of  which  ought 
to  be  found  in  Junius.  They  are  all  five  found  in  Francis. 
We  do  not  believe  that  more  than  two  of  them  can  be  found 
in  any  other  person  whatever.  If  this  agreement  does  not 
settle  the  question,  there  is  an  end  of  all  reasoning  on  cir- 
cumstantial evidence. 

The  internal  evidence  seems  to  us  to  point  the  same  way. 
The  style  of  Francis  bears  a strong  resemblance  to  that  of 
Junius;  nor  are  we  disposed  to  admit,  what  is  generally 
taken  for  granted,  that  the  acknowledged  compositions  of 
Francis  are  very  decidedly  inferior  to  the  anonymous  letters. 
The  argument  from  inferiority,  at  all  events,  is  one  which 
may  be  urged  with  at  least  equal  force  against  every  claim- 
ant that  has  ever  been  mentioned,  with  the  single  exception 
of  Burke;  and  it  would  be  a waste  of  time  to  prove  that 
Burke  was  not  Junius.  And  what  conclusion,  after  all,  can 
be  drawn  from  mere  inferiority?  Every  writer  must  pro- 
duce his  best  work;  and  the  interval  between  his  best  work 
and  his  second  best  work  may  be  very  wide  indeed.  No- 
body will  say  that  the  best  letters  of  J unius  are  more  de- 
cidedly superior  to  the  acknowledged  works  of  Francis  than 
three  or  four  of  Corneille's  tragedies  to  the  rest,  than  three 
or  four  of  Ben  Jonson's  comedies  to  the  rest,  than  the  Pil- 
grim's Progress  to  the  other  works  of  Bunyan,  than  Don 
Quixote  to  the  other  works  of  Cervantes.  Nay,  it  is  certain 
that  Junius,  whoever  he  may  have  been,  was  a most  unequal 
■writer*  To  go  no  further  than  the  letters  which  bear  the 


680 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


signature  of  Junius  ; the  letter  to  the  king,  and  the  letters 
to  Horne  Tooke,  have  little  in  common,  except  the  asperity ; 
and  asperity  was  an  ingredient  seldom  wanting  either  in  the 
writings  or  in  the  speeches  of  Francis. 

Indeed  one  of  the  strongest  reasons  for  believing  that 
Francis  was  Junius  is  the  moral  resemblance  between  the 
two  men.  It  is  not  difficult,  from  the  letters  which,  under 
various  signatures,  are  known  to  have  been  written  by 
Junius,  and  from  his  dealings  with  Woodfall  and  others,  to 
form  a tolerably  correct  notion  of  his  character.  He  was 
clearly  a man  not  destitute  of  real  patriotism  and  magna- 
nimity, a man  whose  vices  were  not  of  a sordid  kind.  But 
he  must  also  have  been  a man  in  the  highest  degree  arrogant 
and  insolent,  a man  prone  to  malevolence,  and  prone  to 
the  error  of  mistaking  his  malevolence  for  public  virtue. 
“ Docst  thou  well  to  be  angry  ? ” was  the  question  asked  in 
old  time  of  the  Hebrew  prophet.  And  he  answered,  “ I do 
well.”  This  was  evidently  the  temper  of  Junius ; and  to 
this  cause  we  attribute  the  savage  cruelty  which  disgraces 
several  of  his  letters.  No  man  is  so  merciless  as  he  who, 
under  a strong  self-delusion,  confounds  his  antipathies  witli 
his  duties.  It  may  be  added  that  Junius,  tnough  allied  with 
the  democratic  party  by  common  enmities,  was  the  very  op- 
posite of  a democratic  politician.  While  attacking  indi- 
viduals with  a ferocity  wffiich  perpetually  violated  all  the 
laws  of  literary  warfare,  he  regarded  the  most  defective 
parts  of  old  institutions  with  a respect  amounting  to  pedantry, 
pleaded  the  cause  of  Old  Sarum  with  fervor,  and  contemptu- 
ously told  the  capitalists  of  Manchester  and  Leeds  that,  if 
they  wanted  votes,  they  might  buy  land  and  become  free- 
holders of  Lancashire  and  Yorkshire.  All  this,  we  believe, 
might  stand,  with  scarcely  any  change,  for  a character  of 
Philip  Francis. 

It  is  not  strange  that  the  great  anonymous  writer  should 
have  been  willing  at  that  time  to  leave  the  country  which 
had  been  so  powerfully  stirred  by  his  eloquence.  Every- 
thing had  gone  against  him.  That  party  which  he  clearly 
preferred  to  every  other,  the  party  of  George  Grenville,  had 
been  scattered  by  the  death  of  its  chief;  and  Lord  Suffolk 
had  led  the  greater  part  of  it  over  to  the  ministerial  benches. 
The  ferment  produced  by  the  Middlesex  election  had  gone 
down.  Every  faction  must  have  been  alike  an  object  of 
aversion  to  Junius.  His  opinions  on  domestic  affairs  separ- 
ated him  from  the  ministry  ; his  opinions  on  colonial  affairs 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


581 


from  the  opposition.  Under  such  circumstances,  he  had 
thrown  down  his  pen  in  misanthropical  despair  His  fare- 
well letter  to  Woodfall  bears  date  the  nineteen  th  of  Janu- 
ary, 1773.  In  that  letter,  he  declared  that  he  must  be  an 
idiot  to  write  again  ; that  he  had  meant  well  by  the  cause 
and  the  public ; that  both  were  given  up  ; that  there  were 
not  ten  men  who  would  act  steadily  together  on  any  ques- 
tion. “ But  it  is  all  alike,”  1 e added,  “ vile  and  contempt- 
ible. You  have  never  flinched  that  I know  of ; and  I shall 
always  rejoice  to  hear  of  your  prosperity.”  These  were  the 
Vast  words  of  Junius.  In  a year  from  that  time,  Philip 
Francis  was  on  his  voyage  to  Bengal. 

With  the  three  new  Councillors  came  out  the  judges  of 
the  Supreme  Court.  The  chief  justice  was  Sir  Elijah  Impey. 
He  was  an  old  acquaintance  of  Hastings ; and  it  is  probable 
that  the  Governor-General,  if  he  had  searched  through  ali 
the  inns  of  court,  could  not  have  found  an  equally  serviceable 
tool.  But  the  members  of  Council  were  by  no  means  in  an 
obsequious  mood.  Hastings  greatly  disliked  the  new  form 
of  government,  and  had  no  very  high  opinion  of  his  coad^ 
jutors.  They  had  heard  of  this,  and  were  disposed  to  be 
suspicious  and  punctilious.  When  men  are  in  such  a frame 
of  mind,  any  trifle  is  sufficient  to  give  occasion  for  dispute. 
The  members  of  Council  expected  a salute  of  twenty-one 
guns  from  the  batteries  of  Fort  William.  Hastings  allowed 
them  only  seventeen.  They  landed  in  ill  humor.  The  first 
civilities  were  exchanged  with  cold  reserve.  On  the  mor- 
row commenced  that  long  quarrel  which,  after  distracting 
British  India,  was  renewed  in  England,  and  in  which  all 
the  most  eminent  statesmen  and  orators  of  the  age  took 
active  part  on  one  or  the  other  side. 

Hastings  was  supported  by  Barwell.  They  had  not 
always  been  friends.  But  the  arrival  of  the  new  members 
of  Council  from  England  naturally  had  the  effect  of  uniting 
the  old  servants  of  the  Company.  Clavering,  Monson,  and 
Francis  formed  the  majority.  They  instantly  wrested  the 
government  out  of  the  hands  of  Hastings,  condemned,  cer- 
tainly not  without  justice,  his  late  dealings  with  the  Nabob 
Yizier,  recalled  the  English  agent  from  Oude,  and  sent 
thither  a creature  of  their  own,  ordered  the  brigade  which 
had  conquered  the  unhappy  Rohiilas,  to  return  to  the  Com- 
pany’s territories,  and  instituted  a severe  inquiry  into  the 
conduct  of  the  war.  Next,  in  spite  of  the  Governor-Gen- 
eral’s remonstrances.  they  proceeded  to  exercise,  in  the  most 


582  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

indiscreet  manner,  their  new  authority  over  the  subordinate 
presidencies;  threw  all  the  affairs  of  Bombay  into  confu- 
sion; and  interfered,  with  an  incredible  union  of  rashness 
and  feebleness,  in  the  intestine  disputes  of  the  Mahratta 
government.  At  the  same  time,  they  fell  on  the  internal 
administration  of  Bengal,  and  attacked  the  whole  fiscal  and 
judicial  system,  a system  which  was  undoubtedly  defective, 
but  which  it  was  very  improbable  that  gentlemen  fresh  from 
England  would  be  competent  to  amend.  The  effect  of  their 
reforms  was  that  all  protection  to  life  and  property  was 
withdrawn,  and  that  gangs  of  robbers  plundered  and  slaugh- 
tered with  impunity  in  the  very  suburbs  of  Calcutta.  Has- 
tings continued  to  live  in  the  Government-house,  and  to 
draw  the  salary  of  Governor-General.  He  continued  even 
to  take  the  lead  at  the  council-board  in  the  transaction  of 
ordinary  business;  for  his  opponents  could  not  but  feel 
that  he  knew  much  of  which  they  were  ignorant,  and  that 
he  decided,  both  surely  and  speedily,  many  questions  which 
to  them  would  have  been  hopelessly  puzzling.  But  the 
higher  powers  of  government  and  the  most  valuable 
patronage  had  been  taken  from  him. 

The  natives  soon  found  this  out.  They  considered 
him  as  a fallen  man;  and  they  acted  after  their  kind. 
Some  of  our  readers  may  have  seen,  in  India,  a crowd  of 
crows  pecking  a sick  vulture  to  death,  no  bad  type  of  what 
happens  in  that  country,  as  often  as  fortune  deserts  one  who 
has  been  great  and  dreaded.  In  an  instant  all  the  syco- 
phants who  had  lately  been  ready  to  lie  for  him,  to  forge  for 
him,  to  pander  for  him,  to  poison  for  him,  hasten  to  purchase 
the  favor  of  his  victorious  enemies  by  accusing  him.  An  In- 
dian government  has  only  to  let  it  be  understood  that  it 
wishes  a particular  man  to  be  ruined;  and  in  twenty-four 
hours  it  will  be  furnished  with  grave  charges,  supported  by 
depositions  so  full  and  circumstantial  that  any  person  unac- 
customed to  Asiatic  mendacity  would  regard  them  as  decisive. 
It  is  well  if  the  signature  of  the  destined  victim  is  not  coun- 
terfeited at  the  foot  of  some  illegal  compact,  and  if  some 
treasonable  paper  is  not  slipped  into  a hiding-place  in  his 
house.  Hastings  was  now  regarded  as  helpless.  The  power 
to  make  or  mar  the  fortune  of  every  man  in  Bengal  had 
passed,  as  it  seemed,  into  the  hands  of  the  new  Councillors. 
Immediately  charges  against  the  Governor-General  began  to 
pour  in.  They  were  eagerly  welcomed  by  the  majority, 
who,  to  do  them  justice,  were  men  of  too  much  honor 


683 


knowingly  to  countenance  false  accusations,  but  who  were 
not  sufficiently  acquainted  with  the  East  to  be  aware  that, 
in  that  part  of  the  world,  a very  little  encouragement  from 
power  will  call  forth,  in  a week,  more  Oateses,  and  Bedloes, 
and  Dangerfields,  than  Westminster  Hall  sees  in  a century. 

It  would  have  been  strange  indeed  if,  at  such  a juncture, 
Nuncomar  had  remained  quiet.  That  bad  man  was  stimu- 
lated at  once  by  malignity,  by  avarice,  and  by  ambition. 
Now  was  the  time  to  be  avenged  on  his  old  enemy,  to  wreak 
a grudge  of  seventeen  years,  to  establish  himself  in  the  favor 
of  the  majority  of  the  Council,  to  become  the  greatest  nat  ive 
in  Bengal.  From  the  time  of  the  arrival  of  the  new  Coun- 
cillors, lie  had  paid  the  most  marked  court  to  them,  and  had 
in  consequence  been  excluded,  with  all  indignity,  from  the 
Government-house.  He  now  put  into  the  hands  of  Francis, 
with  great  ceremony,  a paper,  containing  several  charges  of 
the  most  serious  description.  By  this  document  Hastings 
was  accused  of  putting  offices  up  to  sale,  and  of  receiving 
bribes  for  suffering  offenders  to  escape.  In  particular,  it 
was  alleged  that  Mahommed  Reza  Khan  had  been  dismissed 
with  impunity,  in  consideration  of  a great  sum  paid  to  the 
Governor-General. 

Francis  read  the  paper  in  Council.  A violent  alterca- 
tion followed.  Hastings  complained- in  bitter  terms  of  the 
way  in  which  he  was  treated,  spoke  with  contempt  of  Nun- 
comar  and  of  Nuncomar’s  accusation,  and  denied  the  right 
of  the  Council  to  sit  in  judgment  on  the  Governor.  At  the 
next  meeting  of  the  Board,  another  communication  from 
Nuncomar  was  produced.  He  requested  that  he  might  be 
permitted  to  attend  the  Council,  and  that  lie  might  be  heard 
in  support  of  his  assertions.  Another  tempestuous  debate 
took  place.  The  Governor-General  maintained  that  the 
council-room  was  not  a proper  place  for  such  an  investiga- 
tion ; that  from  persons  who  were  heated  by  daily  conflict 
with  him  he  could  not  expect  the  fairness  of  judges;  and 
that  he  could  not,  without  betraying  the  dignity  of  his  post, 
submit  to  be  confronted  with  such  a man  as  Nuncomar. 
The  majority,  however,  resolved  ,to  go  into  the  charges. 
Hastings  rose,  declared  the  sitting  at  an  end,  and  left  the 
room  followed  by  Harwell.  The  other  members  kept  their 
seats,  voted  themsel  ves  a council,  put  Clavering  in  the  chair, 
and  ordered  Nuncomar  to  be  called  in.  Nuncomar  not  only 
adhered  to  the  original  charges,  but,  after  the  fashion  of  the 
East,  produced  a large  supplement.  He  stated  that  Hastings 


684  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

had  received  a great  sum  for  appointing  Rajah  Goordas 
treasurer  of  the  Nabob’s  household,  and  for  committing  the 
care  of  his  Highness’s  person  to  the  Munny  Begum.  He 
put  in  a letter  purporting  to  bear  the  seal  of  the  Munny 
Begum,  for  the  purpose  of  establishing  the  truth  of  his  story. 
The  seal,  whether  forged,  as  Hastings  affirmed,  or  genuine,  as 
we  are  rather  inclined  to  believe,  proved  nothing.  Nun- 
comar,  as  everybody  knows,  who  knows  India,  had  only  to 
tell  the  Munny  Begum  that  such  a letter  would  give  pleasure 
to  the  majority  of  the  Council,  in  order  to  procure  her  attes- 
tation. The  majority,  however,  voted  that  the  charge  was 
made  out ; that  Hastings  had  corruptly  received  between 
thirty  and  forty  thousand  pounds ; and  that  he  ought  to  be 
compelled  to  refund. 

The  general  feeling  among  the  English  in  Bengal  was 
strongly  in  favor  of  the  Governor-General.  In  talents  for 
business,  in  knowledge  of  the  country,  in  general  courtesy 
of  demeanor,  he  was  decidedly  superior  to  his  persecutors. 
The  servants  of  the  Company  were  naturally  disposed  to 
side  with  the  most  distinguished  member  of  their  own  body 
against  a clerk  from  the  war-office,  who,  profoundly  igno- 
rant of  the  native  languages  and  of  the  native  character,  took 
on  himself  to  regulate  every  department  of  the  administra- 
tion. Hastings,  however,  in  spite  of  the  general  sympathy 
of  his  countrymen,  was  in  a most  painful  situation.  There 
was  still  an  appeal  to  higher  authority  in  England.  If  that 
authority  took  part  with  his  enemies,  nothing  was  left  to 
him  but  to  throw  up  his  office.  He  accordingly  placed  his 
resignation  in  the  hands  of  his  agent  at  London,  Colonel 
Macleane.  But  Macleane  was  instructed  not  to  produce  the 
resignation,  unless  it  should  be  fully  ascertained  that  the 
feeling  at  the  India  House  was  adverse  to  the  Governor- 
General. 

The  triumph  of  Nuncomar  seemed  to  be  complete.  lie 
held  a daily  levee,  to  wdiich  his  countryuncn  resorted  in 
crowds,  and  to  which,  on  one  occasion,  the  majority  of  the 
Council  condescended  to  repair.  His  house  was  an  office 
tor  the  purpose  of  receiving  charges  against  the  Governor- 
General.  It  was  said  that,  partly  by  threats,  and  partly  by 
wheedling,  the  villainous  Brahmin  had  induced  many  of  the 
wealthiest  men  of  the  province  to  send  in  complaints.  But 
he  was  playing  a perilous  game.  It  was  not  safe  to  drive  to 
despair  a man  of  such  resources  and  of  such  determination 
as  Hastings.  Nuncomar,  with  all  his  acuteness,  did  not 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


585 


understand  the  nature  of  the  institutions  under  which  he 
lived.  He  saw  that  he  had  with  him  the  majority  of  the 
body  which  made  treaties,  gave  places,  raised  taxes.  The 
separation  between  political  and  judicial  functions  was  a 
thing  of  which  he  had  no  conception.  It  had  probably  never 
occurred  to  him  that  there  was  in  Bengal  an  authority  per- 
fectly independent  of  the  Council,  an  authority  which  could 
protect  one  whom  the  Council  wished  to  destroy,  and  send 
to  the  gibbet  one  whom  the  Council  wished  to  protect.  Yet 
such  was  the  fact.  The  Supreme  Court  was,  within  the 
sphere  of  its  own  duties,  altogether  independent  of  the 
Government.  Hastings,  with  his  usual  sagacity,  had  seen 
how  much  advantage  he  might  derive  from  possessing  him- 
self of  this  stronghold  ; and  he  had  acted  accordingly.  The 
Judges,  especially  the  Chief  Justice,  were  hostile  to  the 
majority  of  the  Council.  The  time  had  now  come  for  put- 
ting this  formidable  machinery  into  action. 

On  a sudden,  Calcutta  was  astounded  by  the  news  that 
Huncomar  had  been  taken  up  on  a charge  of  felony,  com- 
mitted, and  thrown  into  the  common  jail.  The  crime  im- 
puted to  him  was  that  six  years  before  he  had  forged  a bond. 
The  ostensible  prosecutor  was  a native.  But  it  was  then, 
and  still  is,  the  opinion  of  everybody,  idiots  and  biographers 
excepted,  that  Hastings  was  the  real  mover  in  the  business. 

The  rage  of  the  majority  rose  to  the  highest  point.  They 
protested  against  the  proceedings  of  the  Supreme  Court, 
and  sent  several  urgent  messages  to  the  Judges,  demanding 
that  Nuncomar  should  be  admitted  to  bail.  The  Judges  re- 
turned haughty  and  resolute  answers.  All  that  the  Council 
could  do  was  to  heap  honors  and  emoluments  on  the  family 
of  Nuncomar ; and  this  they  did.  In  the  mean  time  the 
assizes  commenced ; a true  bill  was  found;  and  Nuncomar 
was  brought  before  Sir  Elijah  Impey  and  a jury  composed 
of  Englishmen.  A great  quantity  of  contradictory  swearing, 
and  the  necessity  of  having  every  word  of  the  evidence  in- 
terpreted, protracted  the  trial  to  a most  unusual  length.  At 
last  a verdict  of  guilty  was  returned,  and  the  Chief  Justice 
pronounced  sentence  of  death  on  the  prisoner. 

That  Impey  ought  to  have  respited  Yuncomar  we  hold 
to  oe  perfectly  clear.  Whether  the  whole  proceeding  was 
not  illegal,  is  a question.  But  it  is  certain,  that  whatever 
may  have  been,  according  to  technical  rules  of  construction, 
the  effect  of  the  statute  under  which  the  trial  took  place,  it 
was  most  unjust  to  hang  a Hindoo  for  forgery.  The  law 


586  macaxtlay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

which  made  forgery  capital  in  England  was  passed  without 
the  smallest  reference  to  the  state  of  society  in  India.  It 
was  unknown  to  the  natives  bf  India.  It  had  never  been 
put  in  execution  among  them,  certainly  not  for  want  of 
delinquents.  It  was  in  the  highest  degree  shocking  to  all 
their  notions.  They  were  not  accustomed  to  the  distinction 
which  many  circumstances,  peculiar  to  our  own  state  of 
society,  have  led  us  to  make  between  forgery  and  other  kinds 
of  cheating.  The  counterfeiting  of  a seal  was,  in  their  esti- 
mation, a common  act  of  swindling ; nor  had  it  ever  crossed 
their  minds  that  it  was  to  be  punished  as  severely  as  gang- 
robbery  or  assassination.  A just  judge  would,  beyond  all 
doubt,  have  reserved  the  case  for  the  consideration  of  the 
sovereign.  But  Impey  would  not  hear  of  mercy  or  delay. 

The  excitement  among  all  classes -was  great.  Francis 
and  Francis’s  few  English  adherents  described  the  Governor- 
General  and  the  Chief  Justice  as  the  worst  of  murderers. 
Clavering,  it  was  said,  swore  that,  even  at  the  foot  of  the 
gallows,  Nuncomar  should  be  rescued.  The  bulk  of  the 
European  society,  though  strongly  attached  to  the  Governor- 
General,  could  not  but  feel  compassion  for  a man  who,  with 
all  his  crimes,  had  so  long  filled  so  large  a space  in  their 
sight,  who  had  been  great  and  powerful  before  the  British 
empire  in  India  began  to  exist,  and  to  whom,  in  the  old  times, 
governors  and  members  of  council,  then  mere  commercial 
factors,  had  paid  court  for  protection.  The  feeling  of  the 
Hindoos  was  infinitely  stronger.  They  were,  indeed,  not  a 
people  to  strike  one  blow  for  their  countryman.  But  his 
sentence  filled  them  with  sorrow  and  dismay.  Tried  even 
by  their  low  standard  of  morality,  he  was  a bad  man.  But 
bad  as  he  was,  he  was  the  head  of  their  race  and  religion,  a 
Brahmin  of  the  Brahmins.  He  had  inherited  the  purest  and 
highest  caste.  He  had  practised  with  the  greatest  punctual- 
ity all  those  ceremonies  to  which  the  superstitious  Bengalees 
ascribe  far  more  importance  than  to  the  correct  discharge 
of  the  social  duties.  They  felt,  therefore,  as  a devout 
Catholic  in  the  dark  ages  would  have  felt,  at  seeing  a prel- 
ate of  the  highest  dignity  sent  to  the  gallows  by  a secular 
tribunal.  According  to  their  old  national  laws,  a Brahmin 
could  not  be  put  to  death  for  any  crime  whatever.  And 
the  crime  for  which  Nuncomar  was  about  to  die  was  re- 
garded by  them  in  much  the  same  light  in  which  the  selling 
of  an  unsound  horse,  for  a sound  price,  is  regarded  by  a 
Yorkshire  jockey. 


wa nnuw  BAStmos. 


58? 


The  Mussulmans  alone  appear  to  have  seen  with  exults 
tion  the  fate  of  the  powerful  Hindoo,  who  had  attempted 
rise  by  means  of  the  ruin  of  Mahoinmed  Reza  Khan.  The 
Mahommedan  historian  of  those  times  takes  delight  in  aggra- 
vating the  charge.  He  assures  us  that  in  Nuncomar’ s house 
a casket  was  found  containing  counterfeits  of  the  seals  of  al 
the  richest  men  of  the  province.  W e have  never  fallen  in 
with  any  other  authority  for  this  story,  which  in  itself  is  by 
no  means  improbable. 

The  day  drew  near  ; and  Nuncomar  prepared  himself  to 
die  with  that  quiet  fortitude  with  which  the  Bengalee,  so 
effeminately  timid  in  personal  conflict,  often  encounters 
calamities  for  which  there  is  no  remedy.  The  sheriff,  with 
the  humanity  which  is  seldom  wanting  in  an  English  gentle- 
man, visited  the  prisoner  on  the  eve  of  the  execution,  and 
assured  him  that  no  indulgence,  consistent  with  the  law, 
should  be  refused  to  him.  Nuncomar  expressed  his  grati- 
tude with  great  politeness  and  unaltered  composure.  Not 
a muscle  of  his  face  moved.  Not  a sigh  broke  from  him. 
He  put  his  finger  to  his  forehead,  and  calmly  said  that  fate 
would  have  its  way,  and  that  there  w as  no  resisting  the 
pleasure  of  God.  lie  sent  his  compliments  to  Francis,  Claver- 
ing, and  Monson,  and  charged  them  to  protect  Rajah  Goor- 
das,  who  was  about  to  become  the  head  of  the  Brahmins  of 
Bengal.  The  sheriff  withdrew,  greatly  agitated  by  what 
had  passed,  and  Nuncomar  sat  composedly  down  to  wTrite 
notes  and  examine  accounts. 

The  next  morning,  before  the  sun  was  in  his  power,  an 
immense  concourse  assembled  round  the  place  where  the 
gallows  had  been  set  up.  Grief  and  horror  were  on  every 
face  ; yet  to  the  last  the  multitude  could  hardly  believe  that 
the  English  really  purposed  to  take  the  life  of  the  great 
Brahmin.  At  length  the  mournful  procession  came  through 
the  crowd.  Nuncomar  sat  up  in  his  palanquin,  and  looked 
round  him  with  unaltered  serenity.  He  had  just  parted 
from  those  who  wrere  most  nearly  connected  w7ith  him. 
Their  cries  and  contortions  had  appalled  the  European  minis- 
ters of  justice,  but  had  not  produced  the  smallest  effect  on 
the  iron  stoicism  of  the  prisoner.  The  only  anxiety  which 
he  expressed  was  that  men  of  his  owrn  priestly  caste  might 
be  in  attendance  to  take  charge  of  his  corpse.  He  again  de- 
sired to  be  remembered  to  his  friends  in  the  Council, 
mounted  the  scaffold  wdth  firmness,  and  gave  the  signal  to 
the  executioner,  The  moment  that  the  drop  fell,  a howl  of 


588  MACAULAY*S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

sorrow  and  despair  rose  from  the  innumerable  spectators, 
Hundreds  turned  away  their  faces  from  the  polluting  sight, 
fled  with  loud  wailings  towards  the  Hoogley,  and  plunged 
into  its  holy  waters,  as  if  to  purify  themselves  from  the 
guilt  of  having  looked  on  such  a crime.  These  feelings  were 
not  confined  to  Calcutta.  The  whole  province  was  greatly 
excited;  and  the  population  of  Dacca,  in  particular,  gave 
strong  signs  of  grief  and  dismay. 

Of  Impey’s  conduct  it  is  impossible  to  speak  tob  severely. 
We  have  already  said  that,  in  our  opinion,  he  acted  unjustly 
in  refusing  to  respite  Nuncomar.  No  rational  man  can 
doubt  that  he  took  this  course  in  order  to  gratify  the  Gov- 
ernor-General. If  we  had  ever  had  any  doubts  on  that  point, 
they  would  have  been  dispelled  by  a letter  which  Mr.  Gleig 
has  published.  Hastings,  three  or  four  years  later,  de- 
scribed Impey  as  the  man  ato  whose  support  he  was  at  one 
time  indebted  for  the  safety  of  his  fortune,  honor,  and  rep- 
utation.” These  strong  words  can  refer  only  to  the  case 
of  Nuncomar ; and  they  must  mean  that  Impey  hanged 
Nuncomar  in  order  to  support  Hastings.  It  is,  therefore, 
our  deliberate  opinion  that  Impey,  sitting  as  a judge,  put  a 
man  unjustly  to  death  in  order  to  serve  a political  purpose. 

But  we  look  on  the  conduct  of  Hastings  in  a somewhat 
different  light.  He  was  struggling  for  fortune,  honor,  lib- 
erty, all  that  makes  life  valuable.  He  was  beset  by  ran- 
corous and  unprincipled  enemies.  From  his  colleagues  he 
could  expect  no  justice.  He  cannot  be  blamed  for  wishing 
to  crush  his  accusers.  He  was  indeed  bound  to  use  only 
legitimate  means  for  that  end.  But  it  was  not  strange  that 
he  should  have  thought  any  means  legitimate  which  were 
pronounced  legitimate  by  the  sages  of  the  law,  by  men 
whose  peculiar  duty  it  was  to  deal  justly  between  adversaries, 
and  whose  education  might  be  supposed  to  have  peculiarly 
qualified  them  for  the  discharge  of  that  duty.  Nobody  de- 
mands from  a party  the  unbending  equity  of  a judge.  Tho 
reason  that  judges  are  appointed  is,  that  even  a good  man 
cannot  be  trusted  to  decide  a cause  in  which  he  is  himself 
concerned.  Not  a day  passes  on  which  an  honest  pros- 
ecutor does  not  ask  for  what  none  but  a dishonest  tribunal 
would  grant.  It  is  too  much  to  expect  that  any  man, 
when  his  dearest  interests  are  at  stake,  and  his  strongest 
passions  excited,  will,  as  against  himself,  be  more  just  than 
the  sworn  dispensers  of  justice.  To  take  an  analogous  case 
from  the  history  of  our  own  island ; suppose  that  Lorct 


WAtntn^  HASTINGS. 


589 


Stafford,  when  in  the  Tower  on  suspicion  of  being  con- 
cerned in  the  Popish  plot,  had  been  apprised  that  Titus 
Oates  had  done  something  which  might,  by  a questionable 
construction,  be  brought  under  the  head  of  felony.  Should 
we  severely  blame  Lord  Stafford,  in  the  supposed  case,  for 
causing  a prosecution  to  be  instituted,  for  furnishing  funds, 
for  using  all  his  influence  to  intercept  the  mercy  of  the 
Crown  ? We  think  not.  If  a judge,  indeed,  from  favor  to 
the  Catholic  lords,  were  to  strain  the  law  in  order  to  hang 
Oates,  such  a judge  would  richly  deserve  impeachment. 
But  it  does  not  appear  to  us  that  the  Catholic  lord,  by 
bringing  the  case  before  the  judge  for  decision,  would  ma- 
terially overstep  the  limits  of  a just  self-defence. 

While,  therefore  we  have  not  the  least  doubt  that  this 
memorable  execution  is  to  be  attributed  to  Hastings,  we 
doubt  whether  it  can  with  justice  be  reckoned  among  his 
crimes.  That  his  conduct  was  dictated  by  a profound 
policy  is  evident.  lie  was  in  a minority  in  Council.  It 
was  possible  that  he  might  long  be  in  a minority.  He  knew 
Tie  native  character  well.  He  knew  in  what  abundance 
iccusations  are  certain  to  flow  in  against  the  most  innocent 
inhabitant  of  India  who  is  under  the  frown  of  power. 
There  was  not  in  the  whole  black  population  of  Bengal,  a 
place-holder,  a place-hunter,  a government  tenant,  who  did 
not  think  that  he  might  better  himself  by  sending  up  a 
deposition  against  the  Governor-General.  Under  these 
circumstances,  the  persecuted  statesman  resolved  to  teach 
the  whole  crew  of  accusers  and  witnesses,  that,  though  in  a 
minority  at  the  council-board,  he  was* still  to  be  feared. 
The  lesson  which  lie  gave  them  was  indeed  a lesson  not  to 
be  forgotten.  The  head  of  the  combination  which  had  been 
formed  against  him,  the  richest,  the  most  powerful  the  most 
artful  of  the  Hindoos,  distinguished  by  the  favor  of  those  who 
then  held  the  government,  fenced  round  by  the  superstitious 
reverence  of  millions,  was  hanged  in  broad  day  before  many 
thousands  of  people.  Everything  that  could  make  the  warn- 
ing impressive,  dignity  in  the  sufferer,  solemnity  in  the  pro- 
ceeding, was  found  in  this  case.  The  helpless  rage  and  vain 
struggles  of  the  Council  made  the  triumph  more  signal.  From 
that  moment  the  conviction  of  every  native  was  that  it  was 
safer  to  take  the  part  of  Hastings  in  a minority  than  that  of 
Francis  in  a majority,  and  that  he  who  was  so  venturous  as 
to  join  in  running  down  the*Govornor-General  might  chance, 
in  the  phrase  of  the  Eastern  puet,  to  find  a tiger,  while 


690 


MACAULAY*S  mSCEWLAtfEOtTg 


beating  the  jungle  for  a deer.  The  voices  of  a thousand 
informers  were  silenced  in  an  instant.  From  that  time, 
whatever  difficulties  Hastings  might  have  to  encounter,  he 
was  never  molested  by  accusations  from  natives  in  India. 

It  is  a remarkable  circumstance  that  one  of  the  letters  of 
Hastings  to  Dr.  Johnson  bears  date  a very  few  hours  after 
the  death  of  Nuncomar.  While  the  whole  settlement  was 
in  commotion,  while  a mighty  and  ancient  priesthood  were 
weeping  over  the  remains  of  their  chief,  the  conqueror  in 
that  deadly  grapple  sat  down,  with  characteristic  self-posses- 
sion, to  write  about  the  Tour  to  the  Hebrides,  Jones’s  Persian 
Grammar,  and  the  history,  traditions,  arts,  and  natural  pro- 
ductions of  India. 

In  the  mean  time,  intelligence  of  the  Rohilla  war,  and  of 
the  first  disputes  between  Hastings  and  his  colleagues,  had 
reached  London.  The  Directors  took  part  with  the  major- 
ity, and  sent  out  a letter  filled  with  severe  reflections  on  the 
conduct  of  Hastings.  They  condemned,  in  strong  but  just 
terms,  the  iniquity  of  undertaking  offensive  wars  merely  for 
the  sake  of  pecuniary  advantage.  But  they  utterly  forgot 
that,  if  Hastings  had  by  illicit  means  obtained  pecuniary 
advantages,  he  had  done  so,  not  for  his  own  benefit,  but  in 
irder  to  meet  their  demands.  To  enjoin  honesty,  and  to 
■u«ist  on  having  what  could  not  be  honestly  got,  was  then 
i he  .constant  practice  of  the  Company.  As  Lady  Macbeth 
f lys  of  her  husband,  they  “ wrould  not  play  false,  and  yet 
v ould  wwongly  wrin.” 

The  Regulating  Act,  by  which  Hastings  had  been 
appointed  Governor-General  for  five  years,  empowered  the 
Cr  )wn  to  remove  him  on  an  address  from  the  Company. 
I o *d  North  was  desirous  to  procure  such  an  address.  The 
three  members  of  Council  who  had  been  sent  out  from  Eng- 
land were  men  of  bis  own  choice.  General  Clavering,  in 
particular,  was  supported  by  a large  parliamentary  con- 
nection, such  as  no  cabinet  could  be  inclined  to  disoblige. 
The  wish  of  the  minister  wrae  to  displace  Hastings,  and  to 
put  Clavering  at  the  head  of  the  government.  In  the  Court 
of  Directors  parties  were  very  nearly  balanced.  Eleven 
voted  against  Hastings  ; ten  for  him.  The  Court  of  Proprie- 
tors was  then  convened.  The  great  sale-room  presented  a 
singular  appearance.  Letters  had  been  sent  by  the  Secretary 
of  the  Treasury,  exhorting  all  the  supporters  of  government 
who  held  Inch a stock  to  be  in  attendance.  Lord  Sandwich 
marshalled  the  friends  of  the  administration  with  his  usual 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


591 


dexterity  aiid  alertness.  Fifty  peers  and  privy  councillors, 
seldom  seen  so  far  eastward,  were  counted  in  the  crowd. 
The  debate  lasted  till  midnight.  The  opponents  of  Has- 
tings had  a small  superiority  on  the  division  ; but  a ballot 
was  demanded ; and  the  result  was  that  the  Governor-General 
triumphed  by  a majority  of  above  a hundred  votes  over  the 
combined  efforts  of  the  Directors  and  the  Cabinet.  The 
ministers  were  greatly  exasperated  by  this  defeat.  Even 
Lord  North  lost  his  temper,  no  ordinary  occurrence  with 
him,  and  threatened  to  convoke  parliament  before  Christ- 
mas, and  to  bring  in  a bill  for  depriving  the  Company  of  all 
political  power,  and  for  restricting  it  to  its  old  business  of 
trading  in  silks  and  teas. 

Colonel  Macleane,  who  through  all  this  conflict  had 
zealously  supported  the  cause  of  Hastings,  now  thought  that 
his  employer  was  in  imminent  danger  of  being  turned  out, 
branded  with  parliamentary  censure,  perhaps  prosecuted. 
The  opinion  of  the  crown  lawyers  had  already  been  taken 
respecting  some  parts  of  the  Governor-General’s  conduct. 
It  seemed  to  be  high  time  to  think  of  securing  an  honorable 
retreat.  Under  these  circumstances,  Macleane  thought 
himself  justified  in  producing  the  resignation  with  which  he 
had  been  intrusted . The  instrument  was  not  in  very  accurate 
form;  but  the  Directors  were  too  eager  to  be  scrupulous. 
They  accepted  the  resignation,  fixed  on  Mr.  Wheler,  one  of 
their  own  body,  to  succeed  Hastings,  and  sent  o t orders 
that  General  Clavering,  as  senior  member  of  Council,  should 
exercise  the  functions  of  Governor-General  till  Mr.  Wheler 
should  arrive. 

But  while  these  things  were  passing  in  England,  a great 
change  had  taken  place  in  Bengal.  Monson  was  no  more. 
Only  four  members  of  the  government  were  left.  Clavering 
and  Francis  were  on  one  side,  Barwell  and  the  Governor- 
General  on  the  other ; and  the  Governor-General  had  the 
casting  vote.  Hastings,  who  had  been  during  two  years 
destitute  of  all  power  and  patronage,  became  at  once  ab- 
solute. He  instantly  proceeded  to  retaliate  on  his  adversaries. 
Their  measures  were  reversed : their  creatures  were  dis- 
placed. A new  valuation  of  the  lands  of  Bengal,  for  the 
purposes  of  taxation,  was  ordered : and  it  was  provided  that 
the  whole  inquiry  should  be  conducted  by  the  Governor- 
General,  and  that  all  the  letters  relating  to  it  should  run  in 
his  name.  He  began,  at  the  same  time,  to  revolve  vast  plans 
of  conquest  and  dominion;  plans  which  he  lived  to  see  realized, 


692  MAC  a ctlay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

though  not  by  himself.  His  project  was  to  form  subsidiary 
alliances  with  the  native  princes,  particularly  with  those  of 
Oude  and  Berar,  and  thus  to  make  Britain  the  paramount 
power  in  India.  While  he  was  meditating  these  great  de- 
signs, arrived  the  intelligence  that  he  had  ceased  to  be 
Governor-General,  that  his  resignation  had  been  accepted, 
that  Wheler  was  coming  out  immediately,  and  that,  till  -j 
Wheler  arrived,  the  chair  was  to  be  filled  by  Clavering. 

Had  Hastings  still  been  in  a minority,  he  would  prob- 
ably have  retired  without  a struggle  ; but  he  was  now  the  ' 
real  master  of  British  India,  and  he  was  not  disposed  to  quit 
his  high  place.  He  asserted  that  he  had  never  given  any 
instructions  which  could  warrant  the  steps  taken  at  home,  i 
What  his  instructions  had  been,  he  owned  he  had  forgotten.  \ 
If  he  had  kept  a copy  of  them  he  had  mislaid  it.  But  he 
was  certain  that  he  had  repeatedly  declared  to  the  Direc- 
tors that  he  would  not  resign.  He  could  not  see  how  the 
court,  possessed  of  that  declaration  from  himself,  could  ; 
receive  his  resignation  from  the  doubtful  hands  of  an  agent. 

If  the  resignation  were  invalid,  all  the  proceedings  which 
were  founded  on  that  resignation  were  null,  and  Hastings  jj 
was  still  Governor-General. 

He  afterwards  affirmed  that,  though  his  agents  had  not 
acted  in  conformity  with  his  instructions,  he  would  never-  i 
theless  have  held  himself  bound  by  their  acts,  if  Clavering  1 
had  not  attempted  to  seize  the  supreme  power  by  violence.  \ 
Whether  this  assertion  were  or  were  not  true,  it  cannot  be  } 
doubted  that  the  imprudence  of  Clavering  gave  Hastings  j 
an  advantage.  The  General  sent  for  the  keys  of  the  fort  1 
and  of  the  treasury,  took  possession  of  the  records,  and  j 
held  a council  at  which  Francis  attended.  Hastings  took  j 
the  chair  in  another  apartment,  and  Barwell  sat  with  him.  1 
Each  of  the  two  parties  had  a plausible  show  of  right. 
There  was  no  authority  entitled  to  their  obedience  within  | 
fifteen  thousand  miles.  It  seemed  that  there  remained  no  ] 
way  of  settling  the  dispute  except  an  appeal  to  arms,  and 
from  such  an  appeal  Hastings,  confident  of  his  influence  | 
over  his  countrymen  in  India,  was  not  inclined  to  shrink,  j 
He  directed  the  officers  of  the  garrison  at  Fort  William  and 
of  all  the  neighboring  stations  to  obey  no  orders  but  his.  i 
At  the  same  time,  with  admirable  judgment,  he  offered  to  j 
submit  the  case  to  the  Supreme  Court,  and  to  abide  by  \ 
its  decision.  By  making  this  proposition  he  risked  noth-  \ 
ing  ‘,  yet  it  was  a proposition  which  his  opponents  could  l. 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


593 


hardly  reject.  Nobody  could  be  treated  as  a criminal  for 
obeying  what  the  judges  should  solemnly  pronounce  to  be 
the  lawful  government.  The  boldest  man  would  shrink 
from  taking  arms  in  defence  of  what  the  judges  should  pro- 
nounce to  be  usurpation.  Clavering  and  Francis,  after 
some  delay,  unwillingly  consented  to  abide  by  the  award 
of  the  court.  The  court  pronounced  that  the  resignation 
was  invalid,  and  that  therefore  Hastings  was  still  Gover- 
nor-General under  the  Regulating  Act ; and  the  defeated 
members  of  the  Council,  finding  that  the  sense  of  the  whole 
settlement  was  against  them,  acquiesced  in  the  decision. 

About  this  time  arrived  the  news  that,  after  a suit  which 
had  lasted  several  years,  the  Franconian  courts  had  decreed 
a divorce  between  Imhoff  and  his  wife.  The  Baron  left  Cal- 
cutta, carrying  with  him  the  means  of  buying  an  estate  in 
Saxony.  The  lady  became  Mrs.  Hastings.  The  event  was 
celebrated  by  great  festivities  ; and  all  the  most  conspicuous 
persons  at  Calcutta,  without  distinction  of  parties,  were  in- 
vited to  the  Government-house.  Clavering,  as  the  Mahom- 
medan  chronicler  tells  the  story,  was  sick  in  mind  and  body, 
and  excused  himself  from  joining  the  splendid  assembly. 
But  Hastings,  whom,  as  it  should  seem  success  in  ambition 
and  in  love  had  put  into  high  good  humor,  would  take  no 
denial.  He  went  himself  to  the  General’s  house,  and  at 
length  brought  his  vanquished  rival  in  triumph  to  the  gay 
circle  which  surrounded  the  bride.  The  exertion  was  too 
much  for  a frame  broken  by  mortification  as  well  as  by 
disease.  Clavering  died  a few  days  later. 

Wheler,  who  came  out  expecting  to  be  Governor-General, 
and  was  forced  to  content  himself  with  a seat.at  the  council- 
board,  generally  voted  with  Francis.  But  the  Governor- 
General,  with  Barwell’s  help  and  his  own  casting  vote,  was 
still  the  master.  Some  change  took  place  at  this  time  in  the 
feeling  both  of  the  Court  Directors  and  of  the  Min- 
isters of  the  Crown.  All  designs  against  Hastings  were 
dropped  ; and,  when  his  original  term  of  five  years  expired, 
he  was  quietly  reappointed.  The  truth  is,  that  the  fearful 
dangers  to  wdiich  the  public  interests  in  every  quarter 
were  now  exposed,  made  both  Lord  North  and  the  Com- 
pany unwilling  to  part  with  a Governor  whose  talents,  ex- 
perience, and  resolution,  enmity  itself  was  compelled  to 
acknowledge. 

The  crisis  was  indeed  formidable.  That  great  and  vic- 
torious empire,  on  the  throne  of  which  George  the  Third 

Vol.  II.— 38 


b94 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


had  taken  his  seat  eighteen  years  before,  with  brighter  hopes 
than  had  attended  the  accession  of  any  of  the  long  line  of 
English  sovereigns,  had,  by  the  most  senseless  misgovern- 
ment,  been  brought  to  the  verge  of  ruin.  In  America  mil- 
lions of  Englishmen  were  at  war  with  the  country  from  which 
their  blood,  their  language,  their  religion,  and  their  institu- 
tions were  derived,  and  to  which,  but  a short  time  before, 
they  had  been  as  strongly  attached  as  the  inhabitants  of 
Norfolk  and  Leicestershire.  The  great  powers  of  Europe, 
humbled  to  the  dust  by  the  vigor  and  genius  which  had 
guided  the  counsels  of  George  the  Second,  now  rejoiced  in 
the  prospect  of  a signal  revenge.  The  'time  was  approach- 
ing when  our  island,  while  struggling  to  keep  down  tne 
United  States  of  America,  and  pressed  with  a still  nearer 
danger  by  the  too  just  discontents  of  Ireland,  was  to  be  as- 
sailed by  France,  Spain,  and  Holland,  and  to  be  threatened 
by  the  armed  neutrality  of  the  Baltic ; when  even  our  mari- 
time supremacy  was  to  be  in  jeopardy  ; when  hostile  fleets 
were  to  command  the  Straits  of  Calpe  and  the  Mexican  Sea ; 
when  the  British  flag  was  to  be  scarcely  able  to  protect  the 
British  Channel.  Great  as  were  the  faults  of  Hastings,  it 
was  happy  for  our  country  that  at  that  conjuncture,  the 
most  terrible  through  which  she  has  ever  passed,  he  was  the 
ruler  of  her  Indian  dominions. 

An  attack  by  sea  on  Bengal  was  little  to  be  apprehended. 
The  danger  was  that  the  European  enemies  of  England 
might  form  an  alliance  with  some  native  power,  might  fur- 
nish that  power  with  troops,  arms,  and  ammunition,  and 
might  thus  assail  our  possessions  on  the  side  of  the  land.  It 
was  chiefly  from  the  Mahrattas  that  Hastings  anticipated 
danger.  The  original  seat  of  that  singular  people  was  the 
wild  range  of  hills  which  runs  along  the  western  coast  of 
India.  In  the  reign  of  Aurungzebe  the  inhabitants  of  those 
regions,  led  by  the  great  Sevajee,  began  to  descend  on  the 
possessions  of  their  wealthier  and  less  warlike  neighbors. 
The  energy,  ferocity,  and  cunning  of  the  Mahrattas,  soon 
made  them  the  most  conspicuous  among  the  new  powers 
which  were  generated  by  the  corruption  of  the  decaying 
monarchy.  At  first  they  were  only  robbers.  They  soon 
rose  to  the  dignity  of  conquerors.  Half  the  provinces  of 
the  empire  were  turned  into  Mahratta  principalities.  Free- 
booters, sprung  from  low  castes,  and  accustomed  to  menial 
employments,  became  mighty  Rajahs.  The  Bonslas,  at  tne 
head  of  a band  of  plunderers,  occupied  the  vast  region  of 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


595 

Berar.  The  Guicowar,  which  is,  being  interpreted,  the 
Herdsman,  founded  that  dynasty  which  still  reigns  in  Guz- 
erat.  The  houses  of  Scindia  and  Holkar  waxed  great  in 
Malwa.  One  adventurous  captain  made  his  nest  on  the  im- 
pregnable rock  of  Gooti.  Another  became  the  lord  of  the 
thousand  villages  which  are  scattered  among  the  green  rice- 
fields  of  Tan j ore. 

That  was  the  time,  throughout  India,  of  double  govern- 
ment . The  form  and  the  power  were  everywhere  separated. 
The  Mussulman  nabobs  who  had  become  sovereign  princes, 
the  Vizier  in  Oude,  and  the  Nizam  at  Hyderabad,  still  called 
themselves  the  viceroys  of  the  house  of  Tamerlane.  In  the 
same  manner  the  Mahratta  states,  though  really  indepen- 
dent of  each  other,  pretended  to  be  members  of  one  empire* 
They  all  acknowledged,  by  words  and  ceremonies,  the  su- 
premacy of  the  heir  of  Sevajee,  a roi  faineant  who  chewed 
bang  and  toyed  with  dancing  girls  in  a state  prison  at 
Sattara,  and  of  his  Peshwa  or  mayor  of  the  palace,  a great 
hereditary  magistrate,  who  kept  a court  with  kingly  state 
at  Poonah,  and  whose  authority  was  obeyed  in  the  spacious 
provinces  of  Aurungabad  and  Bejapoor. 

Some  months  before  war  was  declared  in  Europe  the 
government  of  Bengal  was  alarmed  by  the  news  that  a 
French  adventurer,  who  passed  for  a man  of  quality,  had 
arrived  at  Poonah.  It  was  said  that  he  had  been  received 
there  with  great  distinction,  that  he  had  delivered  to  the 
Peshwa,  letters  and  presents  from  Louis  the  Sixteenth,  and 
that  a treaty,  hostile  to  England,  had  been  concluded 
between  France  and  the  Mahrattas. 

Hastings  immediately  resolved  to  strike  the  first  blow. 
The  title  of  the  Peshwa  was  not  undisputed.  A portion  of 
the  Mahratta  nation  was  favorable  to  a pretender.  The 
Governor- General  determined  to  espouse  this  pretender’s 
interest,  to  move  an  army  across  the  peninsula  of  India, 
and  to  form  a close  alliance  with  the  chief  of  the  House  of 
Bonsla,  who  ruled  Berar,  and  who,  in  power  and  dignity, 
was  inferior  to  none  of  the  Mahratta  princes. 

The  army  had  marched,  and  the  negotiations  with  Berar 
were  in  progress,  when  a letter  from  the  English  consul  at 
Cairo,  brought  the  news  that  war  had  been  proclaimed  both 
in  London  and  Paris.  All  the  measures  which  the  crisis 
required  were  adopted  by  Hastings  without  a moment’s 
delay.  The  French  factories  in  Bengal  were  seized.  Orders 
were  sent  to  Madras  that  Pondicherry  should  instantly  be 


596 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


occupied.  Near  Calcutta,  works  were  thrown  up  which 
thought  to  render  the  approach  of  a hostile  force  impossible. 
A maritime  establishment  was  formed  for  the  defence  of  the 
river.  Nine  new  battalions  of  sepoys  were  raised,  and  a 
corps  of  native  artillery  was  formed  out  of  the  hardy  Lascars 
of  the  Bay  of  Bengal.  Having  made  these  arrangements,  the 
Governor-General  with  calm  confidence  pronounced  his  pres 
idency  secure  from  all  attack,  unless  the  Mahrattas  should 
march  against  it  in  conjunction  with  the  French. 

The  expedition  which  Hastings  had  sent  westward  was 
not  so  speedily  or  completely  successful  as  most  of  his  un- 
dertakings. The  commanding  officer  procrastinated.  The 
authorities  at  Bombay  blundered.  But  the  Governor-General 
persevered.  A new  commander  repaired  the  errors  of  his 
predecessor.  Several  brilliant  actions  spread  the  military 
renown  of  the  English  through  regions  where  no  European 
flag  had  ever  been  seen.  It  is  probable  that,  if  a new  and 
more  formidable  danger  had  not  compelled  Hastings  to 
change  his  whole  policy,  his  plans  respecting  the  Mahratta 
empire  would  have  been  carried  into  complete  effect. 

The  authorities  in  England  had  wisely  sent  out  to  Ben- 
gal, as  commander  of  the  forces  and  member  of  the  Council, 
one  of  the  most  distinguished  soldiers  of  that  time.  Sir 
Eyre  Coote  had,  many  years  before,  been  conspicuous  among 
the  founders  of  the  British  empire  in  the  East.  At  the 
council  of  war  which  preceded  the  battle  of  Plassey,  he 
earnestly  recommended,  in  opposition  to  the  majority,  that 
daring  course  which,  after  some  hesitation,  was  adopted, 
and  which  was  crowned  with  such  splendid  success.  He 
subsequently  commanded  in  the  south  of  India  against  the 
brave  and  unfortunate  Lally,  gained  the  decisive  battle  of 
Wandewash  over  the  French  and  their  native  allies,  took 
Pondicherry,  and  made  the  English  power  supreme  in  the 
Carnatic.  Since  those  great  exploits  near  twenty  years  had 
elapsed.  Coote  had  no  longer  the  bodily  activity  which  he 
had  shown  in  earlier  days ; nor  was  the  vigor  of  his  mind 
altogether  unimpaired.  He  was  capricious  and  fretful,  and 
required  much  coaxing  to  keep  him  in  good  humor.  It 
must,  we  fear,  be  added  that  the  love  of  money  had  grown 
upon  him,  and  that  he  thought  more  about  his  allowances, 
and  less  about  his  duties,  than  might  have  been  expected 
from  so  eminent  a member  of  so  noble  a profession.  Still 
he  was  perhaps  the  ablest  officer  that  was  then  to  be  found  in 
the  British  army.  Among  the  native  soldiers  his  name  was 


liirillA&a&ifta 


WAKRKN  HASTINGS* 


507 


great  and  his  influence  unrivalled.  Nor  is  he  yet  forgotten 
by  them.  Now  and  then  a white-bearded  old  sepoy  may 
still  be  found,  who  loves  to  talk  of  Porto  Novo  and  Polli- 
lore.  It  is  but  a short  time  since  one  of  those  aged  men 
came  to  present  a memorial  to  an  English  oflicer,  who  holds 
one  of  the  highest  employments  in  India.  A print  of  Coote. 
hung  in  the  room.  The  veteran  recognized  at  opce  that  face 
and  figure  which  he  had  not  seen  for  more  than  half  a cen- 
tury, and  forgetting  his  salam  to  the  living,  halted,  drew 
himself  up,  lifted  his  hand,  and  with  solemn  reverence  paid 
his  military  obeisance  to  the  dead. 

Coote,  though  he  did  not,  like  Harwell,  vote  constantly 
with  the  Governor-General,  was  by  no  means  inclined  to 
join  in  systematic  opposition,  and  on  most  questions  con- 
curred with  Hastings,  who  did  his  best,  by  assiduous  court- 
ship, and  by  readily  granting  the  most  exorbitant  allowances, 
to  gratify  the  strongest  passions  of  the  old  soldier. 

It  seemed  likely  at  this  time  that  a general  reconcilia- 
tion would  put  an  end  to  the  quarrels  which  had,  during 
some  yea**s,  weakened  and  disgraced  the  government  of 
Bengal.  The  dangers  of  the  empire  might  well  induce  men 
of  patriotic  feeling, — and  of  patriotic  feeling  neither  Has- 
tings nor  Francis  was  destitute, — to  forget  private  enmities, 
and  to  co-operate  heartily  for  the  general  good.  Coote  had 
never  been  concerned  in  faction.  Whelcr  was  thoroughly 
tired  of  it.  Barwell  had  made  an  ample  fortune,  and,  though 
he  had  promised  that  he  would  not  leave  Calcutta  while  his 
help  was  needed  in  Council,  was  most  desirous  to  return  to 
England,  and  exerted  himself  to  promote  an  arrangement 
which  would  set  him  at  liberty. 

A compact  was  made,  by  which  Francis  agreed  to  desist 
from  opposition,  and  Hastings  engaged  that  the  friends  of 
Francis  should  be  admitted  to  a fair  share  of  the  honors 
and  emoluments  of  the  service.  During  a few  months  after 
this  treaty  there  was  apparent  harmony  at  the  council- 
board. 

Harmony,  indeed,  was  never  more  necessary;  for  at 
this  moment  internal  calamities,  more  formidable  than  war 
itself,  menaced  Bengal.  Tho  authors  of  the  Regulating 
Act  of  1773  had  established  two  independent  powers,  the 
one  judicial,  the  other  political;  and,  wTith  a carelessness 
scandalously  common  in  English  legislation,  had  omitted  to 
define  the  limits  of  either.  The  judges  took  advantage  of 
the  indistinctness,  and  attempted  to  draw  to  themselves 


598  MACAtTtAY^S  MISCJELtAtfEOtTS  WRITItfGS. 

supreme  authority,  not  only  ^vithin  Calcutta,  but  through 
the  whole  of  the  great  territory  subject  to  the  Presidency 
of  Fort  William.  There  are  few  Englishmen  who  will  not 
admit  that  the  English  law,  in  spite  of  modern  improve- 
ments, is  neither  so  cheap  nor  so  speedy  as  might  be  wished. 
Still,  it  is  a system  which  has  grown  up  among  us.  In  some 
points  it  has  been  fashioned  to  suit  our  feelings  ; in  others, 
it  has  gradually  fashioned  our  feelings  to  suit  itself.  Even 
to  its  worst  evils  we  are  accustomed  ; and  therefore,  though 
we  may  complain  of  them,  they  do  not  strike  us  with  the 
horror  and  dismay  which  would  be  produced  by  a new  griev- 
ance of  smaller  severity.  In  India  the  case  is  widely  dif- 
ferent. English  law,  transplanted  to  that  country,  has  all 
the  vices  from  which  we  suffer  here ; it  has  them  all  in  a 
far  higher  degree ; and  it  has  other  vices,  compared  wdth 
which  the  worst  vices  from  which  we  suffer  are  trifles. 
Dilatory  here,  it  is  far  more  dilatory  in  a land  where  the 
help  of  an  interpreter  is  needed  by  every  judge  and  by  every 
advocate.  Costly  here,  it  is  far  more  costly  in  a land  into 
which  the  legal  practitioners  must  be  imported  from  an 
immense  distance.  All  English  labor  in  India,  from  the 
labor  of  the  Governor-General  and  the  Commander-in-Chief, 
down  to  that  of  a groom  or  a watchmaker,  must  be  paid  for 
at  a higher  rate  than  at  home.  No  man  will  be  banished, 
and  banished  to  the  torrid  zone,  for  nothing.  The  rule 
holds  good  with  respect  to  the  legal  profession.  No  English 
barrister  will  work,  fifteen  thousand  miles  from  all  his 
friends,  writh  the  thermometer  at  ninety-six  in  the  shade,  for 
the  emoluments  which  will  content  him  in  chambers  that 
overlook  the  Thames.  Accordingly,  the  fees  at  Calcutta 
are  about  three  times  as  great  as  the  fees  of  Westminster 
Ilall;  and  this,  though  the  people  of  India  are,  beyond  all 
comparison,  poorer  than  the  people  of  England.  Yet  the 
delay  and  the  expense,  grievous  as  they  are,  form  the  smallest 
pj  rt  of  the  evil  which  English  law,  imported  without  modi- 
fications into  India,  could  not  fail  to  produce.  The  strongest 
feelings  of  our  nature,  honor,  religion,  female  modesty,  rose 
up  against  the  innovation.  Arrest  on  mesne  process  was 
the  first  step  in  most  civil  proceedings  ; and  to  a native  of 
rank  arrest  was  not  merely  a restraint,  but  a foul  personal 
indignity.  Oaths  were  required  in  every  stage  of  every 
suit ; and  the  feeling  of  a Quaker  about  an  oath  is  hardly 
stronger  than  that  of  a respectable  native.  That  the  apart- 
ments of  a woman  of  quality  should  be  entered  by  strange 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


59J> 


men,  or  that  her  face  should  be  seen  by  them,  are,  in  the  East, 
intolerable  outrages,  outrages  which  are  more  dreaded  than 
death,  and  which  can  be  expiated  only  by  the  shedding  of 
blood.  To  these  outrages  the  most  distinguished  families 
of  Bengal,  Bahar,  and  Orissa,  were  now  exposed.  Imagine 
what  the  state  of  our  own  country  would  be,  if  a jurispru- 
dence were  on  a sudden  introduced  among  us,  which  should 
be  to  us  what  our  jurisprudence  was  to  our  Asiatic  subjects. 
Imagine  what  the  state  of  our  country  would  be,  if  it  were 
enacted  that  any  man,  by  merely  swearing  that  a debt  wras 
due  to  him,  should  acquire  a right  to  insult  the  persons  of 
men  of  the  most  honorable  and  sacred  callings  and  of  women 
of  the  most  shrinking  delicacy,  to  horsewhip  a general  officer, 
to  put  a bishop  in  the  stocks,  to  treat  ladies  in  the  way  wrhich 
called  forth  the  blow  of  Wat  Tyler.  Something  like  this 
was  the  effect  of  the  attempt  which  the  Supreme  Court 
made  to  extend  its  jurisdiction  over  the  whole  of  the  Com- 
pany’s territory. 

A reign  of  terror  began,  of  terror  heightened  by  mys- 
tery ; for  even  that  which  was  endured  was  less  horrible 
than  that  which  was  anticipated.  No  man  knew  what  was 
next  to  be  expected  from  this  strange  tribunal.  It  came 
from  beyond  the  black  water,  as  the  people  of  India,  with 
mysterious  horror,  call  the  sea.  It  consisted  of  judges  not 
one  of  whom  was  familiar  with  the  usages  of  the  millions 
over  whom  they  claimed  boundless  authority.  Its  records 
were  kept  in  unknown  characters;  its  sentences  were  pro- 
nounced in  unknown  sounds.  It  had  already  collected  round 
itself  an  army  of  the  worst  part  of  the  native  population, 
informers,  and  false  witnesses,  and  common  barrators,  and 
agents  of  chicane,  and  above  all,  a banditti  of  bailiffs’  fol- 
io ivers,  compared  with  whom  the  retainers  of  the  worst 
English  spunging-houses,  in  the  worst  times,  might  be  con- 
sidered as  upright  and  tender-hearted.  Many  natives,  highly 
considered  among  their  countrymen,  were  seized,  hurried  up 
to' Calcutta,  flung  into  the  common  jail,  not  for  any  crime 
even  imputed,  not  for  any  debt  that  had  been  proved,  but 
merely  as  a precaution  till  their  cause  should  come  to  trial. 
There  wrere  instances  in  which  men  of  the  most  venerable 
dignity,  persecuted  without  a cause  by  extortioners,  died  of 
rage  and  shame  in  the  gripe  of  the  vile  alguazils  of  Impey. 
The  harems  of  noble  Maliommedans,  sanctuaries  respected 
in  the  East  by  governments  which  respected  nothing  else, 
Were  burst  open  by  gangs  of  bailiffs.  The  Mussulmans, 


600  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

braver  and  less  accustomed  to  submission  than  the  Hindoos, 
sometimes  stood  on  their  defence  ; and  there  were  instances 
in  which  they  shed  their  blood  in  the  doorway,  while  de- 
fending, sword  in  hand,  the  sacred  apartments  of  their  wo- 
men. Nay,  it  seemed  as  if  even  the  faint-hearted  Bengalee, 
who  had  crouched  at  the  feet  of  Surajah  Dowlah,  who  had 
been  mute  during  the  administration  of  Vansittart,  would 
at  length  find  courage  in  despair.  No  Mahratta  invasion 
had  ever  spread  through  the  province  such  dismay  as  this 
inroad  of  English  lawyers.  All  the  injustice  of  former  op- 
pressors, Asiatic  and  European,  ajDpeared  as  a blessing  when 
compared  with  the  Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court. 

Every  class  of  the  population,  English  and  native,  with 
the  exception  of  the  ravenous  pettifoggers  who  fattened  on 
the  misery  and  terror  of  an  immense  community,  cried  out 
loudly  against  this  fearful  oppression.  But  the  judges  were 
immovable.  If  a bailiff  was  resisted,  they  ordered  the 
soldiers  to  be  called  out.  If  a servant  of  the  Company,  in 
conformity  with  the  orders  of  the  government,  withstood 
the  miserable  catchpoles  who,  with  Impey’s  writs  in  their 
hands,  exceeded  the  insolence  and  rapacity  of  gang-robbers, 
he  was  flung  into  prison  for  a contempt.  The  lapse  of  sixty 
years,  the  virtue  and  wisdom  of  many  eminent  magistrates 
who  have  during  that  time  administered  justice  in  the  Su- 
preme Court,  have  not  effaced  from  the  minds  of  the  people 
of  Bengal  the  recollection  of  those  evil  days. 

The  members  of  the  government  were,  on  this  subject, 
united  as  one  man.  Hastings  had  courted  the  judges ; he 
had  found  them  useful  instruments  ; but  he  was  not  disposed 
to  make«them  his  own  masters,  or  the  masters  of  India.  His 
mind  was  large  ; his  knowledge  of  the  native  character  most 
accurate.  He  saw  that  the  system  pursued  by  the  Supreme 
Court  was  degrading  to  the  government  and  ruinous  to  the 
people ; and  he  resolved  to  oppose  it  manfully.  The  conse- 
quence was,  that  the  friendship,  if  that  be  the  proper  word 
for  such  a connection,  which  had  existed  between  him  and 
Impey,  was  for  a time  completely  dissolved.  The  govern- 
ment placed  itself  firmly  between  the  tyrannical  tribunal 
and  the  people.'  The  Chief  J ustice  proceeded  to  the  wildest 
excesses.  The  Governor-General  and  all  the  members  of 
Council  were  served  with  writs,  calling  on  them  to  appear 
before  the  King’s  justices,  and  to  answer  for  their  public 
acts.  This  was  too  much.  Hastings,  with  just  scorn,  re- 
fused to  obey  the  call,  set  at  liberty  the  persons  wrongfully 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


601 


detained  by  the  Court,  and  took  measures  for  resisting  the 
outrageous  proceedings  of  the  sheriffs’  officers,  if  necessary, 
by  the  sword.  But  he  had  in  view  another  device,  which 
might  prevent  the  necessity  of  an  appeal  to  arms.  He 
wTas  seldom  at  a loss  for  an  expedient;  and  te  knew 
Impey  well.  The  expedient,  in  this  case,  was  a very  simple 
one,  neither  more  nor  less  than  a bribe.  Impey  was,  by  act 
of  parliament,  a judge,  independent  of  the  government  of 
Bengal,  and  entitled  to  a salary  of  eight  thousand  a year. 
Hastings  proposed  to  make  him  also  a judge  in  the  Com- 
pany’s service,  removable  at  the  pleasure  of  the  government 
of  Bengal ; and  to  give  him,  in  that  capacity,  about  eight 
thousand  a year  more.  It  was  understood  that,  in  consider- 
ation of  this  new  salary,  Impey  would  desist  from  urging 
the  high  pretensions  of  his  court.  If  he  did  urge  these  pre- 
tensions, the  government  could,  at  a moment’s  notice,  eject 
him  from  the  new  place  which  had  been  created  for  him. 
The  bargain  was  struck ; Bengal  was  saved ; an  appeal  to 
force  averted;  and  the  Chief  Justice  was  rich,  quiet,  and 
infamous. 

Of  Impey’s  conduct  it  is  unnecessary  to  speak.  It  was 
of  a piece  with  almost  every  part  of  his  conduct  that  comes 
under  the  notice  of  history.  No  other  such  judge  has  dis- 
honored the  English  ermine,  since  Jefferies  drank  himself  to 
death  in  the  Tower.  But  we  cannot  agree  with  those  who 
have  blamed  Hastings  for  this  transaction.  The  case  stood 
thus.  The  negligent  manner  in  which  the  Regulating  Act 
had  been  framed  put  it  in  the  power  of  the  Chief  Justice  to 
throw  a great  country  into  the  most  dreadful  confusion. 
He  was  determined  to  use  his  power  to  the  utmost,  unless 
he  was  paid  to  be  still ; and  Hastings  consented  to  pay  him. 
The  necessity  was  to  be  deplored.  It  is  also  to  be  deplored 
that  pirates  should  be  able  to  exact  ransom,  by  threatening 
to  make  their  captives  walk  a plank.  But  to  ransom  a cap- 
tive from  pirates  has  always  been  held  a humane  and  Christian 
act ; and  it  would  be  absurd  to  charge  the  payer  of  the  ran- 
som with  corrupting  the  virtue  of  the  corsair.  This,  we  se- 
riously think,  is  a not  unfair  illustration  of  the  relative  posi- 
tion of  Impey,  Hastings,  and  the  people  of  India.  Whether 
it  was  right  in  Impey  to  demand  or  to  accept  a price  for 
powers  which,  if  they  really  belonged  to  him,  he  could  not 
abdicate,  which,  if  they  did  not  belong  to  him,  he  ought 
never  to  have  usurped,  and  which  in  neither  case  he  could 
honestly  sell,  is  one  question.  It  is  quite  another  question, 


602  MACAULAY*®  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS* 

whether  Hastings  was  not  right  to  give  any  sum,  however 
large,  to  any  man,  however  worthless,  rather  than  either 
surrender  millions  of  human  beings  to  pillage,^  or  rescue 
them  by  civil  war. 

Francis  strongly  opposed  this  arrangement.  It  may, 
indeed,  be  suspected  that  personal  aversion  to  Impey  was  as 
strong  a motive  with  Francis  as  regard  for  the  welfare  of 
the  province.  To  a mind  burning  with  resentment,  it  might 
seem  better  to  leave  Bengal  to  the  oppressors  than  to  redeem 
it  by  enriching  them.  It  is  not  improbable,  on  the  other 
hand,  that  Hastings  may  have  been  the  more  willing  to  re- 
sort to  an  expedient  agreeable  to  the  Chief  Justice,  because 
that  high  functionary  had  already  been  so  serviceable,  and 
might,  when  existing  dissensions  were  composed,  be  service- 
able again. 

But  it  was  not  on  this  point  alone  that  Francis  was  now 
opposed  to  Hastings.  The  peace  between  them  proved  to 
be  only  a short  and  hollow  truce,  during  which  their  mutual 
aversion  was  constantly  becoming  stronger.  At  length  an 
explosion  took  place.  Hastings  publicly  charged  Francis 
with  having  deceived  him,  and  with  having  induced  Bar- 
well  to  quit  the  service  by  insincere  promises.  Then  came 
a dispute,  such  as  frequently  arises  even  between  honorable 
men,  when  they  may  make  important  agreements  by  mere 
verbal  communication.  An  impartial  historian  will  prob- 
ably be  of  opinion  that  they  had  misunderstood  each  other  ; 
but  their  minds  were  so  much  embittered  that  they  imputed 
to  each  other  nothing  less  than  deliberate  villany.  “ I do 
not,”  said  Hastings,  in  a minute  recorded  on  the  Consulta- 
tions of  the  Government,  “I  do  not  trust  to  Mr.  Francis’s 
promises  of  candor,  convinced  that  he  is  incapable  of  it.  I 
judge  of  his  public  conduct  by  his  private,  which  I have 
found  to  be  void  of  truth  and  honor.”  After  the  Council 
had  risen,  Francis  put  a challenge  into  the  Governor-Gen- 
eral’s hand.  It  was  instantly  accepted.  They  met  and 
fired.  Francis  was  shot  through  the  body.  He  was  carried 
to  a neighboring  house,  where  it  appeared  that  the  wound, 
though  severe,  was  not  mortal.  Hastings  inquired  repeat- 
edly after  his  enemy’s  health,  and  proposed  to  call  on  him ; 
but  Francis  coldly  declined  the  visit.  He  had  a proper 
sense,  he  said,  of  the  Governor-General’s  politeness,  but 
could  not  consent  to  any  private  interview.  They  could 
meet  only  at  the  council-board. 

In  a very  short  time  it  was  made  signally  manifest  to 


, 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


603 


How  great  a danger  the  Governor-General  had,  on  this  oc- 
casion, exposed  his  country.  A crisis  arrived  with  which 
he,  and  he  alone,  was  competent  to  deal.  It  is  not  too  much 
to  say  that,  if  he  had  been  taken  from  the  head  of  affairs, 
the  years  1780  and  1781  would  have  been  as  fatal  to  our 
power  in  Asia  as  to  our  power  in  America. 

The  Mahrattas  had  been  the  chief  objects  of  apprehen- 
sion to  Hastings.  The  measures  which  he  had  adopted  for 
the  purpose  of  breaking  their  power,  had  at  first  been  frus- 
trated by  the  errors  of  those  whom  he  was  compelled  to 
employ;  but  his  perseverance  and  ability  seemed  likely  to 
be  crowned  with  success,  when  afar  more  formidable  danger 
showed  itself  in  another  quarter. 

About  thirty  years  before  this  time,  a Mahommedan 
soldier  had  begun  to  distinguish  himself  in  the  wars  of 
Southern  India.  His  education  had  been  neglected;  his 
extraction  was  humble.  His  father  had  been  a petty  officer 
of  revenue ; his  grandfather  a wandering  dervise.  But 
though  thus  meanly  descended,  though  ignorant  even  of  the 
alphabet,  the  adventurer  had  no  sooner  been  placed  at  the 
head  of  a body  of  troops  than  he  approved  himself  a man 
born  for  conquest  and  command.  Among  the  crowd  of 
chiefs  who  were  struggling  for  a share  of  India,  none  could 
compare  with  him  in  the  qualities  of  the  captain  and  the 
statesman.  He  became  a general ; he  became  a sovereign. 
Out  of  the  fragments  of  old  principalities,  which  had  gone 
to  pieces  in  the  general  wreck,  he  formed  for  himself  a great, 
compact,  and  vigorous  empire.  That  empire  he  ruled  with 
the  ability,  severity,  and  vigilance  of  Lewis  the  Eleventn. 
Licentious  in  his  pleasures,  implacable  in  his  revenge,  he 
had  yet  enlargement  of  mind  enough  to  perceive  how  much 
the  prosperity  of  subjects  adds  to  the  strength  of  govern- 
ments. He  was  an  oppressor ; but  he  had  at  least  the  merit 
of  protecting  his  people  against  all  oppression  except  his 
own.  He  was  noAv  in  extreme  old  age ; but  his  intellect 
was  as  clear,  and  his  spirit  as  high,  as  in  the  prime  of  man- 
hood. Such  was  the  great  Hyder  Ali,  the  founder  of  the 
Mahommedan  kingdom  of  Mysore,  and  the  most  formidable 
enemy  with  whom  the  English  conquerors  of  India  have 
ever  had  to  contend. 

Had  Hastings  been  governor  of  Madras,  Hyder  would 
have  been  either  made  a friend,  or  vigorously  encountered 
as  an  enemy.  Unhappily  the  English  authorities  in  the 
south  provoked  their  powerful  neighbor’s  hostility,  without 


604  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

being  prepared  to  repel  it.  On  a sudden*  an  array  of  ninety 
thousand  men,  far  superior  in  discipline  and  efficiency  to 
any  other  native  force  that  could  be  found  in  India,  came 
pouring  through  those  wild  passes  which,  worn  by  raoun 
tain  torrents,  and  dark  with  jungle,  lead  down  from  the 
table  land  of  Mysore  to  the  plains  of  the  Carnatic.  This 
great  army  was  accompanied  by  a hundred  pieces  of  cannon  ; 
and  its  movements  were  guided  by  many  French  officers, 
trained  in  the  best  military  schools  of  Europe. 

Ilyder  was  everywhere  triumphant.  The  sepoys  in 
many  British  garrisons  flung  down  their  arms.  Some  forts 
wr ere  surrendered  by  treachery,  and  some  by  despair.  In 
a few  days  the  whole  open  country  north  of  the  Coleroon 
had  submitted.  The  English  inhabitants  of  Madras  could 
already  see  by  night,  from  the  top  of  Mount  St.  Thomas, 
the  eastern  sky  reddened  by  a vast  semicircle  of  blazing 
villages.  The  white  villas,  to  which  our  countrymen  retire 
after  the  daily  labors  of  government  and  of  trade,  when  the 
cool  evening  breeze  springs  up  from  the  bay,  were  now  left 
without  inhabitants ; for  bands  of  the  fierce  horsemen  of 
Mysore  had  already  been  seen  provding  among  the  tulip- 
trees,  and  near  the  gay  verandas.  Even  the  towrn  was  not 
thought  secure,  and  the  British  merchants  and  public  func- 
tionaries made  haste  to  crowd  themselves  behind  the  cannon 
of  Fort  St.  George. 

There  were  the  means,  indeed,  of  assembling  an  army 
which  might  have  defended  the  presidency,  and  even  driven 
the  invader  back  to  his  mountains.  Sir  Hector  Munro  was 
at  the  head  of  one  considerable  force  ; Baillie  was  advanc- 
ing with  another.  United,  they  might  have  presented  a 
formidable  front  even  to  such  an  enemy  as  Hyder.  But  the 
English  commanders,  neglecting  those  fundamental  rules  of 
the  military  art  of  which  the  propriety  is  obvious  even  to 
men  who  had  never  received  a military  education,  deferred 
their  junction,  and  w^ere  separately  attacked.  Baiilie’s  de- 
tachment was  destroyed.  Munro  was  forced  to  abandon 
his  1 yggage,  to  fling  his  guns  into  the  tanks,  and  to  save 
him  c l by  a retreat  which  might  be  called  a flight.  In 
three  weeks  from  the  commencement  of  the  war,  the  British 
empire  in  Southern  India  had  been  brought  to  the  verge 
of  ruin.  Only  a few  fortified  places  remained  to  us.  The 
glory  of  our  arms  had  departed.  It  was  known  that  a 
great  French  expedition  might  soon  be  expected  on  the 
coast  of  Coromandel.  England*  beset  by  enemies  on  every 


W AKREN  HASTINGS. 


605 


side,  was  in  no  condition  to  protect  such  remote  depen- 
dencies. 

Then  it  was  that  the  fertile  genius  and  serene  courage 
of  Hastings  achieved  their  most  signal  triumph.  A swift 
ship,  flying  before  the  south-west  monsoon,  brought  the 
evil  tidings  in  a few  days  to  Calcutta.  In  twenty-four 
hours  the  Governor-General  had  framed  a complete  plan  of 
policy  adapted  to  the  altered  state  of  affairs.  The  struggle 
with  Hyder  was  a struggle  for  life  and  death.  All  minor 
objects  must  be  sacrificed  to  the  preservation  of  the  Car- 
natic. The  disputes  with  the  Mahrattas  must  be  accommo- 
dated. A large  military  force  and  a supply  of  money  must 
be  instantly  sent  to  Madras.  But  even  these  measures 
would  be  insufficient,  unless  the  war,  hitherto  so  grossly 
mismanaged,  were  placed  under  the  direction  of  a vigorous 
mind.  It  was  no  time  for  trifling.  Hastings  determined  to 
resort  to  an  extreme  exercise  of  power,  to  suspend  the  in- 
capable governor  of  Fort  St.  George,  to  send  Sir  Eyre 
Coote  to  oppose  Hyder,  and  to  intrust  that  distinguished 
general  with  the  wdiole  administration  of  the  war. 

In  spite  of  the  sullen  opposition  of  Francis,  who  had 
now  recovered  from  his  wound,  and  had  returned  to  the 
Council,  the  Governor-General’s  wise  and  firm  policy  was 
approved  by  the  majority  of  the  board.  The  reinforcements 
were  sent  off  with  great  expedition,  and  reached  Madras 
before  the  French  armament  arrived  in  the  Indian  seas. 
Coote,  broken  by  age  and  disease,  was  no  longer  the  Coote 
of  Wandewash ; but  he  was  still  a resolute  and  skilful  com- 
mander. The  progress  of  Hyder  was  arrested  ; and  in  a 
few  months  the  great  victory  of  Porto  Novo  retrieved  the 
honor  of  the  English  arms. 

In  the  mean  time  Francis  had  returned  to  England,  and 
Hastings  was  now  left  perfectly  unfettered.  Whelcr  had 
gradually  been  relaxing  in  his  opposition,  and,  after  the  de- 
parture of  his  vehement  and  implacable  colleague,  co-oper- 
ated heartily  with  the  Governor-General,  whose  influence 
over  the  British  in  India,  always  great,  had,  by  the  vigor  and 
success  of  his  recent  measures,  been  considerably  increased. 

But,  though  the  difficulties  arising  from  factions  within 
the  Council  were  at  an  end,  another  class  of  difficulties  had 
become  more  pressing  than  ever.  The  financial  embarrass- 
ment Tvas  extreme.  Hastings  had  to  find  the  means,  not 
only  of  carrying  on  the  government  of  Bengal,  but  of  main** 
twining  a most  costly  war  against  both  Indian  and  Euro* 


606 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


pean  enemies  in  the  Carnatic,  and  of  making  remittances  to 
England.  A few  years  before  this  time  he  had  obtained 
relief  by  plundering  the  Mogul  and  enslaving  the  Rohillas ; 
nor  were  the  resources  of  his  fruitful  mind  by  any  means 
exhausted. 

His  first  design  was  on  Benares,  a city  which  in  wealth, 
population,  dignity,  and  sanctity,  was  among  the  foremost 
in  Asia.  It  was  commonly  believed  that  half  a million  of 
human  beings  was  crowded  into  that  labyrinth  of  lofty  al- 
leys, rich  with  shrines,  and  minarets,  and  balconies,  and 
carved  oriels,  to  which  the  sacred  apes  clung  by  hundreds. 
The  traveller  could  scarcely  make  his  way  through  the  press 
of  holy  mendicants  and  not  less  holy  bulls.  The  broad  and 
stately  flights  of  steps  which  descended  from  these  swamp- 
ing haunts  to  the  bathing-places  along  the  Ganges  were 
worn  every  day  by  the  footsteps  of  an  innumerable  multi- 
tude of  worshippers.  The  schools  and  temples  drew  crowds 
of  pious  Hindoos  from  every  province  where  the  Bralnnin- 
ical  faith  was  knowm.  Hundreds  of  devotees  came  thither 
every  month  to  die  ; for  it  was  believed  that  a peculiarly 
happy  fate  awaited  the  man  wdio  should  pass  from  the 
sacred  city  into  the  sacred  river.  Nor  was  superstition  the 
only  motive  which  allured  strangers  to  that  great  metropo- 
lis. Commerce  had  as  many  pilgrims  as  religion.  All  along 
the  shores  of  the  venerable  stream  lay  great  fleets  of  vessels 
laden  with  rich  merchandise.  From  the  looms  of  Benares 
went  forth  the  most  delicate  silks  that  adorned  the  balls  of 
St.  James’s  and  of  Versailles;  and  in  the  bazars,  the  mus- 
lins of  Bengal  and  the  sabres  of  Oude  were  mingled  with 
the  jewels  of  Golconda  and  the  shawls  of  Cashmere.  This 
rich  capital,  and  the  surrounding  tract,  had  long  been  under 
the  immediate  rule  of  a Hindoo  prince,  who  rendered  hom- 
age to  the  Mogul  emperors.  During  the  great  anarchy  of 
India,  the  lords  of  Benares  became  independent  of  the  court 
of  Delhi,  but  were  compelled  to  submit  to  the  authority  of 
the  Nabob  of  Oude.  Oppressed  by  this  formidable  neigh- 
bor, they  invoked  the  protection  of  the  English.  The  Eng- 
lish protection  was  given  ; and  at  length  the  Nabob  Vizier, 
by  a solemn  treaty,  ceded  all  his  rights  over  Benares  to  the 
Company.  From  that  time  the  Rajah  was  the  vassal  of  the 
government  of  Bengal,  acknowledged  its  supremacy,  and 
engaged  to  send  an  annual  tribute  to  Fort  William.  This 
tribute  Cheyte  Sing,  the  reigning  prince,  had  paid  with 
Strict  punctuality. 


WiJt&Btt  a a smas. 


80? 


About  the  precise  nature  of  the  legal  relation  between 
the  Company  and  the  Rajah  of  Benares,  there  has  been 
much  warm  and  acute  controversy.  On  the  one  side  it  has 
been  maintained  that  Cheyte  Sing  was  merely  a great  sub- 
ject on  whom  the  superior  power  had  a right  to  call  for  aid 
m the  necessities  of  the  empire.  On  the  other  side,  it  has 
been  contended  that  he  was  an  independent  prince,  that  the 
only  claim  which  the  Company  had  upon  him  was  for  a fixed 
tribute,  and  that,  while  the  fixed  tribute  was  regularly  paid, 
as  it  assuredly  was,  the  English  had  no  more  right  to  exact 
any  further  contribution  from  him  than  to  demand  subsidies 
from  Holland  or  Denmark.  Nothing  is  easier  than  to  find 
precedents  and  analogies  in  favor  of  either  view. 

Our  own  impression  is  that  neither  view  is  correct.  It 
was  too  much  the  habit  of  English  politicians  to  take  it  for 
granted  that  there  was  in  India  a known  and  definite  con- 
stitution by  which  questions  of  this  kind  were  to  be  decided. 
The  truth  is  that,  during  the  interval  which  elapsed  between 
the  fall  of  the  house  of  Tamerlane  and  the  establishment  of 
the  British  ascendency,  there  was  no  such  constitution.  The 
old  order  of  things  had  passed  away ; the  new  order  of 
things  was  not  yet  formed.  All  was  transition,  confusion, 
obscurity.  Everybody  kept  his  head  as  he  best  might,  and 
scrambled  for  whatever  he  could  get.  There  have  been 
similar  seasons  in  Europe.  The  time  of  the  dissolution  ot 
the  Carlovingian  empire  is  an  instance.  Who  would  think 
of  seriously  discussing  the  question,  what  extent  of  pecuniary 
aid  and  of  obedience  Hugh  Capet  had  a constitutional  right 
to  demand  from  the  Duke  of  Britanny  or  the  Duke  of  Nor- 
mandy ? The  words  “ constitutional  right  ” had,  in  that 
state  of  society,  no  meaning.  If  Hugh  Capet  laid  hands  on 
all  the  possessions  of  the  Duke  of  Normandy,  this  might  be 
unjust  and  immoral ; but  it  would  not  be  illegal,  in  the 
sense  in  which  the  ordinances  of  Charles  the  Tenth  weie  il- 
legal. If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  Duke  of  Normandy  made 
war  on  Hugh  Capet,  this  might  be  unjust  and  immoral ; but 
it  would  not  be  illegal,  in  the  sense  in  which  the  expedition 
of  Prince  Louis  Bonaparte  was  illegal. 

Very  similar  to  this  was  the  state  of  India  sixty  years 
ago.  Of  the  existing  governments  not  a single  one  could 
lay  claim  to  legitimacy,  or  could  plead  any  other  title  than 
recent  occupation.  There  was  scarcely  a province  in  which 
the  real  sovereignty  and  the  nominal  sovereignty  were  not 
disjoined.  Titles  ana  iorrns  were  still  retained  which  im- 


608  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

plied  that  the  heir  of  Tamerlane  was  an  absolute  ruler,  and 
that  the  Nabobs  of  the  provinces  were  his  lieutenants.  In 
reality  he  was  a captive.  The  Nabobs  were  in  some  places 
independent  princes.  In  other  places,  as  in  Bengal  and  the 
Carnatic,  they  had,  like  their  master,  become  mere  phan- 
toms, and  the  Company  was  supreme.  Among  the  Mah- 
rattas,  again,  the  heir  of  Sevajee  still  kept  the  title  of  Rajah  ; 
: ut  he  was  a prisoner,  and  his  prime  minister,  the  Peshwa, 
Lad  become  the  hereditary  chief  of  the  state.  The  Peshwa, 
in  his  turn,  was  fast  sinking  into  the  same  degraded  situa- 
tion into  which  lie  had  reduced  the  Rajah.  It  was,  we  be- 
lieve, impossible  to  find,  from  the  Himalayas  to  Mysore,  a 
single  government  which  was  at  once  a government  de  facto , 
and  a government  de  jure , which  possessed  the  physical 
means  of  making  itself  feared  by  its  neighbors  and  subjects, 
and  which  had  at  the  same  time  the  authority  derived  from 
law  and  long  prescription. 

Hastings  clearly  discerned  what  was  hidden  from  most 
of  his  contemporaries,  that  such  a state  of  things  gave  im- 
mense advantages  to  a ruler  of  great  talents  and  few  scru- 
ples. In  every  international  question  that  could  arise,  he 
had  his  option  between  the  de  facto  ground  and  the  de  jure 
ground ; and  the  probability  was  that  one  of  those  grounds 
would  sustain  any  claim  that  it  might  be  convenient  for  him 
to  make,  and  enable  him  to  resist  any  claim  made  by  others. 
In  every  controversy,  accordingly,  he  resorted  to  the  plea 
which  suited  his  immediate  purpose,  without  troubling  him- 
self in  the  least  about  consistency ; and  thus  he  scarcely 
ever  failed  to  find  what,  to  persons  of  short  memories  and 
scanty  information,  seemed  to  be  a justification  for  what  he 
wanted  to  do.  Sometimes  the  Nabob  of  Bengal  is  a shadow, 
sometimes  a monarch.  Sometimes  the  Vizier  is  a mere 
duputy,  sometimes  an  independent  potentate.  If  it  is  expe- 
dient for  the  Company  to  show  some  legal  title  to  the  reve- 
nues of  Bengal,  the  grant  under  the  seal  of  the  Mogul  is 
brought  forward  as  an  instrument  of  the  highest  authority. 
When  the  Mogul  asks  for  the  rents  which  were  reserved  to 
him  by  that  very  grant,  he  is  told  that  he  is  a mere  pageant, 
that  the  English  power  rests  on  a very  different  foundation 
from  a charter  given  by  him,  that  he  is  welcome  to  play  at 
royalty  as  long  as  he  likes,  but  that  he  must  expect  no  trib- 
ute from  the  real  masters  of  India. 

It  is  true  that  it  was  in  the  power  of  others,  as  well  as  of 
Hastings,  to  practise  this  legerdemain  \ but  in  the  contro- 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


609 


versies  of  governments,  sophistry  is  of  little  use  unless  it  be 
backed  by  power.  There  is  a principle  which  Hastings  was 
fond  of  asserting  in  the  strongest  terms,  and  on  which  he 
acted  with  undeviating  steadiness.  It  is  a principle  which, 
we  must  own,  though  it  may  be  grossly  abused,  can  hardly  be 
disputed  in  the  present  state  of  public  law.  It  is  this,  that 
where  an  ambiguous  question  arises  between  two  govern- 
ments, there  is,  if  they  cannot  agree,  no  appeal  except  by 
force,  and  that  the  opinion  of  the  stronger  must  prevail. 
Almost  every  question  was  ambiguous  in  India.  The  Eng- 
lish government  was  the  strongest  in  India.  The  conse- 
quences are  obvious.  The  English  government  might  do 
exactly  what  it  chose. 

The  English  government  now  chose  to  wring  money  out 
of  Cheyte  Sing.  It  had  formerly  been  convenient  to  treat 
him  as  a sovereign  prince ; it  was  now  convenient  to  treat 
him  as  a subject.  Dexterity  inferior  to  that  of  Hastings 
could  easily  find,  in  the  general  chaos  of  laws  and  customs, 
arguments  for  either  course.  Hastings  wanted  a great  sup- 
ply. It  was  known  that  Cheyte  Sing  had  a large  revenue, 
and  it  was  suspected  that  he  had  accumulated  a treasure. 
Nor  was  he. a favorite  at  Calcutta.  He  had,  when  the  Gov- 
ernor-General was  in  great  difficulties,  courted  the  favor  of 
Francis  and  Clavering.  Hastings,  who,  less  perhaps  from 
evil  passions  than  from  policy,  seldom  left  an  injury  unpun- 
ished, was  not  sorry  that  the  fate  of  Cheyte  Sing  should 
teach  neighboring  princes  the  same  lesson  which  the  fate 
of  Nuncomar  had  already  impressed  on  the  inhabitants  of 
Bengal. 

In  1778,  on  the  first  breaking  out  of  the  war  with  France, 
Cheyte  Sing  was  called  upon  to  pay,  in  addition  to  his  fixed 
tribute,  an  extraordinary  contribution  of  fifty  thousand 
pounds.  In  1779,  an  equal  sum  was  exacted.  In  1780,  the 
demand  was  renewed.  Cheyte  Sing,  in  the  hope  of  obtain- 
ing some  indulgence,  secretly  offered  the  Governor-General 
a bribe  of  twenty  thousand  pounds.  Hastings  took  the 
money,  and  his  enemies  have  maintained  that  he  took  it  in- 
tending to  keep  it.  He  certainly  concealed  the  transaction, 
for  a time,  both  from  the  Council  in  Bengal  and  from  the 
Directors  at  home ; nor  did  he  ever  give  any  satisfactory 
reason  for  the  concealment.  Public  spirit,  or  the  fear  of  de- 
tection, at  last  determined  him  to  withstand  the  temptation. 
He  paid  over  the  bribe  to  the  Company’s  treasury,  and  in- 
sisted that  the  Rajah  should  instantly  comply  with  the  de* 
You  II. — 89  _ 


610  Macaulay's  miscellaneous  writings. 

raands  of  the  English  government.  The  Rajah,  after  the 
fashion  of  his  countrymen,  shuffled,  solicited,  and  pleaded 
poverty.  The  grasp  of  Hastings  was  not  to  be  so  eluded. 
He  added  to  the  requisition  another  ten  thousand  pounds  as 
a line  for  delay,  and  sent  troops  to  exact  the  money. 

The  money  was  paid.  But  this  was  not  enough.  The 
late  events  in  the  south  of  India  had  increased  the  financial 
embarrassments  of  the  Company.  Hastings  was  determined 
to  plunder  Cheyte  Sing,  and,  for  that  end,  to  fasten  a quar- 
rel on  him.  Accordingly,  the  Rajah  was  now  required  to 
keep  a body  of  cavalry  for  the  service  of  the  British  govern- 
ment. He  objected  and  evaded.  This  was  exactly  what 
the  Governor-General  wanted.  He  had  now  a pretext  for 
treating  the  wealthiest  of  his  vassals  as  a criminal.  u I re- 
solved,”— these  are  the  words  of  Hastings  himself, — “ to 
draw  from  his  guilt  the  means  of  relief  of  the  Company’s 
distresses,  to  make  him  pay  largely  for  his  pardon,  or  to  ex- 
act a severe  vengeance  for  past  delinquency.”  The  plan 
was  simply  this,  to  demand  larger  and  larger  contributions 
till  the  Rajah  should  be  driven  to  remonstrate,  then  to  call 
his  remonstrance  a crime,  and  to  punish  him  by  confiscating 
all  his  possessions. 

Cheyte  Sing  was  in  the  greatest  dismay.  He  offered  two 
hundred  thousand  pounds  to  projutiate  the  British  govern-  5 
ment.  But  Hastings  replied  that  nothing  less  than  half  a mil- 
lion would  be  accepted.  Nay,  he  began  to  think  of  selling 
Benares  to  Oude,  as  he  had  formerly  sold  Allahabad  and  Ro- 
hilcund.  The  matter  was  one  which  could  not' be  well  man- 
aged at  a distance ; and  Hastings  resolved  to  visit  Benares. 

Cheyte  Sing  received  his  liege  lord  with  every  mark  of 
reverence,  came  near  sixty  miles,  with  his  guards,  to  meet 
and  escort  the  illustrious  visitor,  and  expressed  his  deep 
concern  at  the  displeasure  of  the  English.  He  even  took 
off  his  turban,  and  laid  it  in  the  lap  of  Hastings,  a gesture 
which  in  India  marks  the  most  profound  submission  and  do» 
votion.  Hastings  behaved  with  cold  and  repulsive  severity.  J 
Having  arrived  at  Benares,  he  sent  to  the  Rajah  a paper 
containing  the  demands  of  the  government  of  Bengal.  The 
Rajah,  in  reply,  attempted  to  clear  himself  from  the  accu- 
sations brought  against  him.  Hastings,  who  wanted  money 
and  not  excuses,  was  not  to  be  put  off  by  the  ordinary  ar- 
tifices of  Eastern  negotiation.  He  instantly  ordered  the 
Rajah  to  be  arrested  and  placed  under  the  custody  of  two 
companies  of  sepoys, 


Warren  nASTiNGS. 


611 


In  taking  these  strong  measures,  Hastings  scarcely 
showed  his  usual  judgment.  It  is  possible  that,  having  had 
little  opportunity  of  personally  observing  any  part  of  the 
population  of  India,  except  the  Bengalees,  he  was  not  fully 
aware  of  the  difference  between  their  character  and  that  of 
the  tribes  which  inhabit  the  upper  provinces.  He  was  now 
in  a land  far  more  favorable  to  the  vigor  of  the  human 
frame  than  the  Delta  of  the  Ganges ; in  a land  fruitful  of 
soldiers,  who  have  been  found  worthy  to  follow  English 
battalions  to  the  charge  and  into  the  breach.  The  Rajah 
was  popular  among  his  subjects.  His  administration  had 
been  mild ; and  the  prosperity  of  the  district  which  he 
governed  presented  a striking  contrast  to  the  depressed 
state  of  Baliar  under  our  rule,  and  a still  more  striking  con- 
trast to  the  misery  of  the  provinces  which  were  cursed  by 
the  tyranny  of  the  Nabob  Vizier.  The  national  and  re- 
ligious prejudices  with  which  the  English  were  regarded 
throughout  India  were  peculiarly  intense  in  the  metropolis 
of  the  Brahminical  superstition.  It  can  therefore  scarcely 
be  doubted  that  the  Governor-General,  before  he  outraged 
the  dignity  of  Cheyte  Sing  by  an  arrest,  ought  to  have  as* 
sembled  a force  capable  of  bearing  down  all  opposition, 
This  had  not  been  done.  The  handful  of  Sepoys  who  ak 
tended  Hastings  would  probably  have  been  sufficient  ta 
overawe  Moorshedabad,  or  the  Black  Town  of  Calcutta. 
But  they  were  unequal  to  a conflict  with  the  hardy  rabble 
of  Benares.  The  streets  surrounding  the  palace  were  filled 
by  an  immense  multitude,  of  whom  a large  proportion,  as 
is  usual  in  Upper  India,  wore  arms.  The  tumult  became  a 
fight,  and  the  fight  a massacre.  The  English  officers  de- 
fended themselves  with  desperate  courage  against  over- 
whelming numbers,  and  fell,  as  became  them,  sword  in 
hand.  The  sepoys  were  butchered.  The  gates  were  forced,, 
The  captive  prince,  neglected  by  his  jailers  during  the  com 
fusion,  discovered  an  outlet  which  opened  on  the  precipitous 
bank  of  the  Ganges,  let  himself  down  to  the  water  by  a 
string  made  of  the  turbans  of  his  attendants,  found  a boat, 
and  escaped  to  the  opposite  shore. 

If  Hastings  had,  by  indiscreet  violence  brought  himself 
into  a difficult  and  perilous  situation,  it  is  only  just  to  ac- 
knowledge that  he  extricated  himself  with  even  more  than  his 
usual  ability  and  presence  of  mind.  He  had  only  fifty  men 
with  him.  The  building  in  which  he  had  taken  up  his  resi- 
dence was  on  every  side  blockaded  by  the  insurgents.  But 


612  MACAULAY*S  MISCELLANEOUS  WHITINGS. 

his  fortitude  remained  unshaken.  The  Rajah  from  the  othef 
side  of  the  river  sent  apologies  and  liberal  offers.  They 
were  not  even  answered.  Some  subtle  and  enterprising 
men  were  found  who  undertook  to  pass  through  the  throng 
of  enemies,  and  to  convey  the  intelligence  of  the  late  events 
to  the  English  cantonments.  It  is  the  fashion  of  the  na- 
tives of  India  to  wear  large  ear-rings  of  gold.  When  they 
travel,  the  rings  are  laid  aside,  lest  the  precious  metal 
should  tempt  some  gang  of  robbers ; and,  in  place  of  the 
ring,  a quill  or  a roll  of  paper  is  inserted  in  the  orifice  to 
prevent  it  from  closing.  Hastings  placed  in  the  ears  of  his 
messengers  letters  rolled  up  in  the  smallest  compass.  Some 
of  these  letters  were  addressed  to  the  commanders  of  Eng- 
lisli  troops.  One  was  written  to  assure  his  wife  of  his  safety. 
One  was  to  the  envoy  whom  he  had  sent  to  negotiate  with 
the  Mahrattas.  Instructions  for  the  negotiation  were  need- 
ed ; and  the  Governor-General  framed  them  in  that  situa- 
tion of  extreme  danger  with  as  much  composure  as  if  he 
had  been  writing  in  his  palace  at  Calcutta. 

Things,  however,  were  not  yet  at  the  worst.  An  Eng- 
lish officer  of  more  spirit  than  judgment,  eager  to  distin- 
guish himself,  made  a premature  attack  on  the  insurgents 
beyond  the  river.  His  troops  were  entangled  in  narrow 
streets,  and  assailed  by  a furious  population.  He  fell,  with 
many  of  his  men ; and  the  survivors  were  forced  to 
retire. 

This  event  produced  the  effect  which  has  never  failed  to  ' 
follow  every  check,  however  slight,  sustained  in  India  by 
the  English  arms.  For  hundreds  of  miles  round,  the  whole 
country  was  in  commotion.  The  entire  population  of  the 
district  of  Benares  took  arms.  The  fields  were  abandoned 
by  the  husbandmen,  who  thronged  to  defend  their  prince. 
The  infection  spread  to  Oude.  The  oppressed  people  of 
that  province  rose  up  against  the  Nabob  Vizier,  refused  to 
pay  their  imposts,  and  put  the  revenue  officers  to  flight. 
Even  Bahar  was  ripe  for  revolt.  The  hopes  of  Cheyte  Sing 
began  to  rise.  Instead  of  imploring  mercy  in  the  humble 
style  of  a vassal,  he  began  to  talk  the  language  of  a con- 
queror, and  threatened,  it  was  said,  to  sweep  the  white 
usurpers  out  of  the  land.  But  the  English  troops  were  now 
assembling  fast.  The  officers,  and  even  the  private  men, 
regarded  the  Governor-General  with  enthusiastic  attach- 
ment, and  flew  to  his  aid  with  an  alacrity  which,  as  he 
boasted,  had  never  been  shown  on  any  other  occasion. 


' 


WAtmtSN  HASTINGS* 


613 


Major  Popham,  a brave  and  skilful  soldier,  who  had  highly 
distinguished  himself  in  the  Mahratta  war,  and  in  whom 
the  Governor-General  reposed  the  greatest  confidence,  took 
the  command.  The  tumultuary  army  of  the  Rajah  was  put 
to  routv  His  fastnesses  were  stormed.  In  a few  hours, 
above  thirty  thousand  men  left  his  standard,  and  returned 
to  their  ordinary  avocations.  The  unhappy  prince  fled  from 
his  country  for  ever.  His  fair  domain  was  added  to  the 
British  dominions.  One  of  his  relations  indeed  was  ap- 
pointed rajah  ; but  the  Rajah  of  Benares  was  henceforth  to 
be,  like  the  Nabob  of  Bengal,  a mere  pensioner. 

By  this  revolution,  an  addition  of  two  hundred  thousand 
pounds  a year  was  made  to  the  revenues  of  the  Company. 
But  the  immediate  relief  was  not  as  great  as  had  been  ex- 
pected. The  treasure  laid  up  by  Cheyte  Sing  had  been 
popularly  estimated  at  a million  sterling.  It  turned  out  to 
be  about  a fourth  part  of  that  sum;  and,  such  as  it  was,  it 
was  seized  by  the  army,  and  divided  as  prize-money. 

Disappointed  in  his  expectations  from  Benares,  Hastings 
was  more  violent  than  lie  would  otherwise  have  been,  in  his 
dealings  with  Oude.  Sujah  Dowlah  had  long  been  'dead. 
His  son  and  successor,  Asaph-ul-Dowlah,  was  one  of  he 
weakest  and  most  vicious  even  of  Eastern  princes.  His 
life  was  divided  between  torpid  repose  and  the  most  odious 
forms  of  sensuality.  In  his  court  there  was  boundless  waste, 
throughout  his  dominions  wretchedness  and  disorder.  He 
had  been,  under  the  skilful  management  of  the  English  gov- 
ernment, gradually  sinking  from  the  rank  of  an  independent 
prince  to  that  of  a vassal  of  the  Company.  It  was  only  by 
the  help  of  a British  brigade  that  he  could  be  secure  from 
the  aggressions  of  neighbors  who  despised  his  weakness,  and 
from  the  vengeance  of  subjects  who  detested  his  tyranny. 
A brigade  was  furnished ; and  he  engaged  to  defray  the 
charge  of  paying  and  maintaining  it.  From  that  time  his 
independence  was  at  an  end.  Hastings  was  not  a man  to 
lose  the  advantage  which  he  had  thus  gained.  The  Nabob 
soon  began  to  complain  of  the  burden  which  he  had  under- 
taken to  bear.  His  revenues,  he  said,  were  falling  off ; his 
servants  were  unpaid ; he  could  no  longer  support  the  ex- 
pense of  the  arrangement  which  he  had  sanctioned.  Has- 
tings would  not  listen  to  these  representations.  The  Yizier, 
he  said,  had  invited  the  government  of  Bengal  to  send  him 
troops,  and  had  promised  to  pay  for  them.  The  troops  had 
been  sent.  How  long  the  troops  were  to  remain  in  Oude 


614  macaulay’s  MISCELLANEOUS  -WRITINGS. 

was  a matter  not  settled  by  the  treaty.  It  remained,  ther<y 
fore,  to  be  settled  between  the  contracting  } larties.  But  the 
contracting  parties  differed.  Who  then  must  decide  ? The 
stronger. 

Hastings  also  argued  that,  if  the  English  force  was  with- 
drawn, Oude  would  certainly  become  a prey  to  anarchy, 
and  would  probably  be  overrun  by  a Mahratta  army.  That 
the  finances  of  Oude  were  embarrassed  he  admitted.  But 
he  contended,  not  without  reason,  that  the  embarrassment 
was  to  be  attributed  to  the  incapacity  and  vices  of  Asaph- 
ul-Dowlah  himself,  and  that,  if  less  were  spent  on  the  troops, 
the  only  effect  would  be  that  more  would  be  squandered  on 
worthless  favorites. 

Hastings  had  intended,  after  settling  the  affairs  of 
Benares,  to  visit  Lucknow,  and  there  to  confer  with  Asaph- 
ul-Dowlah.  But  the  obsequious  courtesy  of  the  Nabob  Vi- 
zier prevented  this  visit.  With  a small  train  he  hastened  to 
meet  the  Governor-General.  An  interview  took  place  in 
the  fortress,  which,  from  the  crest  of  the  precipitous  rock  of 
Chunar,  looks  down  on  the  waters  of  the  Ganges. 

At  first  sight  it  might  appear  impossible  that  the  nego- 
tiation should  come  to  an  amicable  close.  Hastings  wanted 
an  extraordinary  supply  of  money.  Asaph-ul-Dowlah  wanted 
to  obtain  a remission  of  what  he  already  owed.  Such  a 
difference  seemed  to  admit  of  no  compromise.  There  was, 
however,  one  course  satisfactory  to  both  sides,  one  course 
by  which  it  wTas  possible  to  relieve  the  finances  both  of 
Oude  and  Bengal;  and  that  course  was  adopted.  It  was 
simply  this,  that  the  Governor-General  and  the  Nabob 
Vizier  should  join  to  rob  a third  party ; and  the  third  party 
whom  they  determined  to  rob  was  the  parent  of  one  of  the 
robbers. 

The  mother  of  the  late  Nabob,  and  his  wife,  who  was 
the  mother  of  the  present  Nabob,  were  known  as  the  Be- 
gums or  Princesses  of  Oude.  They  had  possessed  great  in- 
fluence over  Sujah  Dowlah,  and  had,  at  his  death,  been  left 
in  possession  of  a splendid  dotation.  The  domains  of 
which  they  received  the  rents  and  administered  the  govern- 
ment were  of  wide  extent.  The  treasure  hoarded  by  the 
late  Nabob,  a treasure  which  was  popularly  estimated  at 
near  three  millions  sterling,  was  in  their  hands.  They  con- 
tinued to  occupy  his  favorite  palace  at  Fyzabad,  the  Beau- 
tiful Dwelling ; while  Asaph-ul-Dowlah  held  his  court  in 
the  stately  Lucknow,  which  he  had  built  for  himself  on  the 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


615 


shores  of  the  Goomti,  and  had  adorned  with  noble  mosques 
and  colleges. 

Asaph-ul-Dowlah  had  already  extorted  considerable  sums 
from  his  mother.  She  had  at  length  appealed  to  the  Eng- 
lish ; and  the  English  had  interfered.  A solemn  compact 
had  been  made,  by  which  she  consented  to  give  her  son 
some  pecuniary  assistance,  and  he  in  his  turn,  promised 
never  to  commit  any  further  invasion  of  her  rights.  This 
compact  was  formally  guaranteed  by  the  government  of 
Bengal.  But  times  had  changed  ; money  was  wanted  ; and 
the  power  which  had  given  the  guarantee  was  not  ashamed 
to  instigate  the  spoiler  to  excesses  such  that  even  he  shrank 
from  them. 

It  was  necessary  to  find  some  pretext  for  a confiscation 
inconsistent,  not  merely  with  plighted  faith,  not  merely  with 
the  ordinary  rules  of  humanity  and  justice,  but  also  with  that 
great  law  of  filial  piety  which,  even  in  the  wildest  tribes  of 
savages,  even  in  those  more  degraded  communities  which 
wither  under  the  influence  of  a corrupt  half-civilization,  re- 
tains a certain  authority  over  the  human  mind.  A pretext 
was  the  last  thing  that  Hastings  was  likely  to  want.  The 
insurrection  at  Benares  had  produced  disturbances  in  Oude. 
These  disturbances  it  was  convenient  to  impute  to  the  Prin- 
cesses. Evidence  for  the  imputation  there  was  scarcely 
any  ; unless  reports  wandering  from  one  mouth  to  another, 
and  gaining  something  by  every  transmission,  may  be  called 
evidence.  The  accused  were  furnished  with  no  charge ; 
they  wcf’e  permitted  to  make  no  defence  ; for  the  Governor- 
General  wisely  considered  that,  if  he  tried  them,  he  might 
not  be  able  to  find  a ground  for  plundering  them.  It  was 
agreed  between  him  and  the  Nabob  Vizier  that  the  noble 
ladies  should,  by  a sweeping  act  of  confiscation,  be  stripped 
of  their  domains  and  treasures  for  the  benefit  of  the  Com- 
pany, and  that  the  sums  thus  obtained  should  be  accepted 
by  the  government  of  Bengal  in  satisfaction  of  its  claims  on 
the  government  of  Oude. 

While  Asaph-ul-Dowlah  was  at  Chunar,  he  was  complete- 
ly subjugated  by  the  clear  and  commanding  intellect  of  the 
English  statesman.  But,  when  they  had  separated,  the 
Vizier  began  to  reflect  with  uneasiness  on  the  engagements 
into  which  he  had  entered.  His  mother  and  grandmother 
protested  and  implored.  His  heart,  deeply  corrupted  by 
absolute  power  and  licentious  pleasures,  yet  not  naturally 
unfeeling,  failed  him  in  this  crisis?  Even  the  English  rest 


616  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

dent  at  Lucknow,  though  hitherto  devoted  to  Hastings, 
shrank  from  extreme  measures.  But  the  Governor-General 
wras  inexorable.  He  wrote  to  the  resident,  in  terms  of  the 
greatest  severity,  and  declared  that,  if  the  spoilation  which 
had  been  agreed  upon  were  not  instantly  carried  into  effect, 
he  would  himself  go  to  Lucknow,  and  do  that  from  which 
feebler  minds  recoil  with  dismay.  The  resident,  thus  men- 
aced, waited  on  his  Highness,  and  insisted  that  the  treaty  of 
Chunar  should  be  carried  into  full  and  immediate  effect. 
Asaph-ul-Dowlah  yielded,  making  at  the  same  time  a solemn 
protestation  that  he  yielded  to  compulsion.  The  lands  were 
resumed ; but  the  treasure  was  not  so  easily  obtained.  It 
was  necessary  to  use  violence.  A body  of  the  Company’s 
troops  marched  to  Fyzabad,  and  forced  the  gates  of  the 
j>alace.  The  Princesses  were  confined  to  their  own  apart- 
ments. But  still  they  refused  to  submit.  Some  more 
stringent  mode  of  coercion  was  to  be  found.  A mode  was 
found  of  which,  even  at  this  distance  of  time,  we  cannot 
speak  without  shame  and  sorrow. 

There  were  at  Fyzabad  two  ancient  men,  belonging  to 
that  unhappy  class  which  a practice,  of  immemorial  an- 
tiquity in  the  East,  has  excluded  from  the  pleasures  of  love 
and  from  the  hope  of  posterity.  It  has  always  been  held  in 
Asiatic ; courts  that  beings  thus  estranged  from  sympathy 
with  their  kind  are  those  whom  princes  may  most  safely 
trust.  Sujah  Dowlah  had  been  of  that  opinion.  He  had 
given  his  entire  confidence  to  the  two  eunuchs ; and  after 
his  death  they  remained  at  the  head  of  the  household  of  his 
widow. 

These  men  were,  by  the  orders  of  the  British  govern- 
ment, seized,  imprisoned,  ironed  starved  almost  to  death,  in 
order  to  extort  money  from  the  Princesses.  After  they  had 
been  two  months  in  confinement,  their  health  gave  way. 
They  implored  permission  to  take  a little  exercise  in  the 
garden  of  their  prison.  The  officer  who  was  in  charge  of 
them  stated  that,  if  they  were  allowed  this  indulgence,  there 
was  not  the  smallest  chance  of  their  escaping,  and  that  their 
irons  really  added  nothing  to  the  security  of  the  custody  in 
which  they  were  kept,  lie  did  not  understand  the  plan  of 
his  superiors.  Their  object  in  these  inflictions  was  not  se- 
curity but  torture ; and  all  mitigation  was  refused.  Tet 
this  was  not  the  worst.  It  was  resolved  by  an  English  gov- 
ernment that  these  two  infirm  old  men  should  be  delivered 
to  the  tormentors.  For  that  purpose  they  were  removed  to 


■ 


WABftEN  HASTINGS* 


61? 


Lucknow.  What  horrors  their  dungeon  there  witnessed 
can  only  be  guessed.  But  there  remains  on  the  records  of 
Parliament,  this  letter,  written  by  a British  resident  to  a 
British  soldier. 

“ Sir,  the  Nabob  having  determined  to  inflict  corporal 
punishment  upon  the  prisoners  under  your  guard,  this  is  to 
desire  that  his  officers,  when  they  shall  come,  may  have  free 
access  to  the  prisoners,  and  be  permitted  to  do  with  them  as 
they  shall  see  proper.” 

While  these  barbarities  were  perpetrated  at  Lucknow, 
the  Princesses  were  still  under  duress  at  Fyzabad.  Food 
was  allowed  to  enter  their  apartments  only  in  such  scanty 
quantities  that  their  female  attendants  were  in  danger  of 
perishing  wTith  hunger.  Month  after  month  this  cruelty 
continued,  till  at  length,  after  twelve  hundred  thousand 
pounds  had  been  wrung  out  of  the  Princesses,  Hastings 
began  to  think  that  he  had  really  got  to  the  bottom  of  their 
coffers,  and  that  no  rigor  could  extort  more.  Then  at 
length  the  wretched  men  who  were  detained  at  Lucknow 
• regained  their  liberty.  When  their  irons  were  knocked  off, 
and  the  doors  of  their  prison  opened,  their  quivering  lips, 
the  tears  which  ran  down  their  cheeks,  and  the  thanks- 
givings which  they  poured  forth  to  the  common  Father  of 
Mussulmans  and  Christians,  melted  even  the  stout  hearts  of 
the  English  warriors  who  stood  by. 

But  we  must  not  forget  to  do  justice  to  Sir  Elijah 
Impey’s  conduct  on  this  occasion.  It  was  not  indeed  easy 
for  him  to  intrude  himself  into  a business  so  entirely  alien 
from  all  his  official  duties.  But  there  was  something  inex- 
pressibly alluring,  we  must  suppose,  in  the  peculiar  rank- 
ness of  the  infamy  which  was  then  to  be  got  at  Lucknow. 
He  hurried  thither  as  fast  as  relays  of  palanquin-bearers 
could  carry  him.  A crowd  of  people  came  before  him  with 
affidavits  against  the  Begums,  ready  drawn  in  their  hands., 
Those  affidavits  he  did  not  read.  Some  of  them,  indeed,  he 
could  notread  ; for  they  were  in  the  dialects  of  Northern 
India,  and  no  interpreter  was  employed.  He  administered 
the  oath  to  the  deponents  with  all  possible  expedition,  and 
asked  not  a single  question,  not  even  whether  they  had 
perused  the  statements  to  which  they  swore.  This  work 
performed,  he  got  again  into  his  palanquin,  and  posted  back 
to  Calcutta,  to  be  in  time  for  the  opening  of  term.  The 
cause  was  one  which,  by  his  own  confession,  lay  altogether 
out  of  his  jurisdiction.  Under  the  charter  of  justice,  he  had 


618  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

no  more  right  to  inquire  into  crimes  committed  by  Asiatics 
in  Oude,  than  the  Lord  President  of  the  Court  of  Sessions 
of  Scotland  to  hold  an  assize  at  Exeter.  He  had  no  right  to 
try  the  Begums,  nor  did  he  pretend  to  try  them.  With 
what  object,  then,  did  he  undertake  so  long  a journey? 
Evidently  in  order  that  he  might  give,  in  an  irregular  man- 
ner, that  sanction  which  in  a regular  manner  he  could  not 
give,  to  the  crimes  of  those  who  had  recently  hired  him ; 
and  in  order  that  a confused  mass  of  testimony  which  he 
did  not  sift,  which  he  did  not  even  read,  might  acquire  an 
authority  not  properly  belonging  to  it,  from  the  signature  of 
the  highest  judicial  functionary  in  India. 

The  time  was  approaching,  however,  when  he  was  to  be 
stripped  of  that  robe  which  has  never,  since  the  Revolution, 
been  disgraced  so  foully  as  by  him.  The  state  of  India  had 
for  some  time  occupied  much  of  the  attention  of  the  British 
Parliament.  Towards  the  close  of  the  American  war,  two 
committees  of  the  Commons  sat  on  Eastern  affairs.  In  one 
Edmund  Burke  took  the  lead.  The  other  was  under  the 
presidency  of  the  able  and  versatile  Henry  Dundas,  then 
Lord  Advocate  of  Scotland.  Great  as  are  the  changes 
which  during  the  last  sixty  years  have  taken  place  in  our 
Asiatic  dominions,  the  reports  which  those  committees  laid 
on  the  table  of  the  House  will  still  be  found  most  interest- 
ing and  instructive. 

There  was  as  yet  no  connection  between  the  Company 
and  either  of  the  great  parties  in  the  state.  The  ministers 
had  no  motive  to  defend  Indian  abuses.  On  the  contrary, 
it  was  for  their  interest  to  show,  if  possible,  that  the  gov- 
ernment and  patronage  of  our  Oriental  empire  might,  with 
advantage,  be  transferred  to  themselves.  The  votes  there- 
fore, which,  in  consequence  of  the  reports  made  by  the  two 
committees,  were  passed  by  the  Commons,  breathed  the 
spirit  of  stern  and  indignant  justice.  The  severest  epithets 
were  applied  to  several  of  the  measures  of  Hastings,  espe- 
cially to  the  Rohilla  war  ; and  it  was  resolved,  on  the  motion 
of  Mr.  Dundas,  that  the  Company  ought  to  recall  a Gover- 
nor-General who  had  brought  such  calamities  on  the  Indian 
people,  and  such  dishonor  on  the  British  name.  An  act 
was  passed  for  limiting  the  jurisdiction  of  the  Supreme 
Court.  The  bargain  which  Hastings  had  made  with  the 
Chief  Justice  was  condemned  in  the  strongest  terms ; and 
an  address  was  presented  to  the  king,  praying  that  Impey 
might  be  summoned  home  to  answer  for  his  misdeeds. 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


619 


impey  was  recalled  by  a letter  from  the  Secretary  ol 
But  the  proprietors  of  India  Stock  resolutely  refused 
to  dismiss  Hastings  from  their  service,  and  passed  a resolu- 
tion, affirming,  what  was  undeniably  true,  that  they  were  in- 
trusted by  law  with  the  right  of  naming  and  removing  their 
Governor-General,  and  that  they  were  not  bound  to  obey 
the  directions  of  a single  branch  of  the  legislature  with 
respect  to  such  nomination  or  removal. 

Thus  supported  by  his  employers,  Hastings  remained  at 
the  head  of  the  government  of  Bengal  till  the  spring  of  1785, 
His  administration,  so  eventful  and  stormy,  closed  in  almost 
perfect  quiet.  In  the  Council  there  was  no  regular  oppo- 
sition to  his  measures.  Peace  was  restored  to  India.  The 
Mahratta  war  had  ceased.  Hyder  was  no  more.  A treaty 
had  been  concluded  with  his  son,  Tippoo  ; and  the  Carnatic 
had  been  evacuated  by  the  armies  of  Mysore.  Since  the 
termination  of  the  American  war,  England  had  no  European 
enemy  or  rival  in  the  Eastern  seas. 

On  a general  review  of  the  long  administration  of  Has- 
tings, it  is  impossible  to  deny  that,  against  the  great  crimes 
by  which  it  is  blemished,  we  have  to  set  off  great  public 
services.  England  had  passed  through  a perilous  crisis. 
She  still,  indeed,  maintained  her  place  in  the  foremost  rank 
of  European  powers  ; and  the  manner  in  which  she  had  de- 
fended herself  against  fearful  odds  had  inspired  surrounding 
nations  with  a high  opinion  both  of  her  spirit  and  of  her 
strength.  Nevertheless,  in  every  part  of  the  world,  except 
one,  she  had  been  a loser.  Not  only  had  she  been  com- 
pelled to  acknowledge  the  independence  of  thirteen  colonies 
peopled  by  her  children,  and  to  conciliate  the  Irish  by  giv- 
ing up  the  right  of  legislating  for  them  ; but,  in  the  Mediter- 
ranean, in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  on  the  coast  of  Africa,  on  the 
continent  of  America,  she  had  been  compelled  to  cede  the 
^ fruits  of  her  victories  in  former  wars.  Spain  regained 
Minorca  and  Florida ; France  regained  Senegal,  Goree,  and 
several  West  Indian  Islands.  The  only  quarter  of  the  world, 
in  which  Britain  had  lost  nothing  was  the  quarter  in  which 
her  interests  had  been  committed  to  the  care  of  Hastings. 
In  spite  of  the  utmost  exertions  both  of  European  and  Asi- 
atic enemies,  the  power  of  our  country  in  the  East  had.  been 
greatly  augmented.  Benares  was  subjected;  the  Nabob 
Vizier  reduced  to  vassalage.  That  our  influence  had  been 
thus  extended,  nay,  that  Fort  William  and  Fort  St.  George 
had  not  been  occupied  by  hostile  armies,  was  owing,  if  we 


620 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


may  trust  the  general  voice  of  the  English  in  India*  to  the 
skill  and  resolution  of  Hastings. 

His  internal  administration,  with  all  its  blemishes,  gives 
him  a title  to  be  considered  as  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
men  in  our  history.  He  dissolved  the  double  government.  j 
He  transferred  the  direction  of  affairs  to  English  hands. 

Out  of  a frightful  anarchy,  he  deduced  at  least  a rude  and 
imperfect  order.  The  whole  organization  by  which  justice 
was  dispensed,  revenue  collected,  peace  maintained  through- 
out a territory  not  inferior  in  population  to  the  dominions 
of  Lewis  the  Sixteenth  or  of  the  Emperor  Joseph,  was 
formed  and  superintended  by  him.  He  boasted  that  every 
public  office,  without  exception,  which  existed  when  he  left 
Bengal,  was  his  creation.  It  is  quite  true  that  this  system, 
after  all  the  improvements  suggested  by  the  experience  of 
sixty  years,  still  needs  improvement,  and  that  it  was  at  first 
far  more  defective  than  it  now  is.  But  whoever  seriously  - 
considers  what  it  is  to  construct  from  the  beginning  the 
whole  of  a machine  so  vast  and  complex  as  a government,  j 
will  allow  that  what  Hastings  effected  deserves  high  admira- 
tion. To  compare  the  most  celebrated  European  ministers 
to  him  seems  to  us  as  unjust  as  it  would  be  to  compare  the 
best  baker  in  London  with  Robinson  Crusoe,  who,  before  he 
could  bake  a single  loaf,  had  to  make  his  plough  and  his 
harrow,  his  fences  and  his  scarecrows,  his  sickle  and  his  flail, 
his  mill  and  his  oven. 

The  just  fame  of  Hastings  rises  still  higher,  when  we  re- 
flect that  he  was  not  bred  a statesman ; that  he  was  sent 
from  school  to  a counting-house  ; and  that  lie  was  employed 
during  the  prime  of  his  manhood  as  a commercial  agent,  far  i 
from  all  intellectual  society. 

Nor  must  we  forget  that  all,  or  almost  all,  to  whom, 
when  placed  at  the  head  of  affairs,  he  could  apply  for  assist- 
ance, were  persons  who  owed  as  little  as  himself,  or  less 
than  himself,  to  education.  A minister  in  Europe  finds  him- 
self, on  the  first  day  on  which  he  commences  his  functions, 
surrounded  by  experienced  public  servants,  the  depositaries 
of  official  traditions.  Hastings  had  no  such  help.  His  own 
reflection,  his  own  energy,  were  to  supply  the  place  of  all 
Downing  Street  and  Somerset  House.  Having  had  no 
facilities  for  learning,  he  was  forced  to  teach.  He  had  first 
to  form  himself,  and  then  to  form  his  instruments  ; and  this 
not  in  a single  department,  but  in  all  the  departments  of  the 
administration. 


jBwranKPi 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


621 


It  must  be  added  that,  while  engaged  in  this  most  ardu- 
ous task,  he  was  constantly  trammelled  by  orders  from 
home,  and  frequently  borne  down  by  a majority  in  council. 
The  preservation  of  an  Empire  from  a formidable  combina- 
tion of  foreign  enemies,  the  construction  of  a government 
in  all  its  parts,  were  accomplished  by  him,  while  every  ship 
brought  out  bales  of  censure  from  his  employers,  and  while 
the  records  of  every  consultation  were  filled  with  acrimoni- 
ous minutes  by  his  colleagues.  We  believe  that  there  never 
was  a public  man  whose  temper  was  so  severely  tried  ; not 
Marlborough,  when  thwarted  by  the  Dutch  Deputies ; not 
Wellington,  when  he  had  to  deal  at  once  with  the  Portuguese 
Regency,  the  Spanish  Juntas,  and  Mr.  Percival.  But  the 
temper  of  Hastings  was  equal  to  almost  any  trial.  It  was 
not  sweet ; but  it  was  calm.  Quick  and  vigorous  as  his  in- 
tellect was,  the  patience  with  which  he  endured  the  most 
cruel  vexations,  till  a remedy  could  be  found,  resembled  the 
patience  of  stupidity.  He  seems  to  have  been  capable  of 
resentment, bitter  and  long-enduring;  yet  his  resentment  so 
seldom  hurried  him  into  any  blunder,  that  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  what  appeared  to  be  revenge  was  anything  but 
policy. 

The  effect  of  this  singular  equanimity  was  that  he  always 
had  the  full  command  of  all  the  resources  of  one  of  the  most 
fertile  minds  that  ever  existed.  Accordingly  no  complica- 
tion of  perils  and  embarrassments  could  perplex  him.  For 
every  difficulty  he  had  a contrivance  ready ; and,  whatever 
may  be  thought  of  the  justice  and  humanity  of  some  of  his 
contrivances,  it  is  certain  that  they  seldom  failed  to  serve 
the  purpose  for  which  they  were  designed. 

Together  with  this  extraordinary  talent  for  devising  ex- 
pedients, Hastings  possessed,  in  a very  high  degree,  another 
talent  scarcely  less  necessary  to  a man  in  his  situation  ; we 
mean  the  talent  for  conducting  political  controversy.  It  is 
as  necessary  to  an  English  statesman  in  the  East  that  he 
should  be  able  to  write,  as  it  is  to  a minister  in  this  country 
that  he  should  bo  able  to  speak.  It  is  chiefly  by  the  oratory 
of  a public  man  here  that  the  nation  judges  of  his  powers. 
It  is  from  the  letters  and  reports  of  a public  man  in  India 
that  the  dispensers  of  patronage  form  their  estimate  of  him. 
In  each  case,  the  talent  which  receives  peculiar  encourage- 
ment is  developed,  perhaps  at  the  expense  of  the  other  pow- 
ers. In  this  country,  we  sometimes  hear  men  speak  above 
their  abilities.  It  is  not  very  unusual  to  find  gentlemen 


MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


622 

in  the  Indian  service  who  write  above  their  abilities.  The 
English  politician  is  a little  too  much  of  a debater  y tho 
Indian  politician  a little  too  much  of  an  essayist. 

Of  the  numerous  servants  ot  the  Company  who  have 
distinguished  themselves  as  framers  of  minutes  and  de- 
spatches, Hastings  stands  at  the  head.  He  was  indeed  the 
person  who  gave  to  the  official  writing  of  the  Indian  govern- 
ments the  character  which  it  still  retains.  He  was  matched 
against  no  common  antagonist.  But  even  Francis  was 
forced  to  acknowledge,  with  sullen  and  resentful  candor, 
that  there  was  no  contending  against  the  pen  of  Hastings. 
And  in  truth,  the  Governor-General’s  power  of  making  out 
a ease,  of  perplexing  what  it  was  inconvenient  that  people 
should  understand,  and  of  setting  in  the  clearest  point  of 
view  whatever  would  bear  the  light,  was  incomparable. 
His  style  must  be  praised  with  some  reservation.  It  was  in 
general  forcible,  pure,  and  polished;  but  it  was  sometimes, 
though  not  often,  turgid,  and,  on  one  or  two  occasions,  even 
bombastic.  Perhaps  the  fondness  of  Hastings  for  Persian 
literature  may  have  tended  to  corrupt  his  taste. 

"And;  since  wq  have  referred  to  his  literary  tastes,  it  would 
be  most  unjust  not  to  praise  the  judicious  encouragement 
which,  as  a ruler,  he  gave  to  liberal  studies  and  curious 
researches.  His  patronage  was  extended,  with  prudent 
generosity,  to  voyages,  travels,  experiments,  publications, 
lie  did  little,  it  is  true,  towards  introducing  into  India  the 
learning  of  the  West.  To  make  the  young  natives  of  Ben- 
gal familiar  with  Milton  and  Adam  Smith,  to  substitute  the 
geography,  astronomy,  and  surgery  of  Europe  for  the  dotage 
of  the  Brahmmical  Superstition,  or  for  the  imperfect  science 
of  ancient  Greece  transfused  through  Arabian  expositions, 
this  was  a scheme  reserved  to  crown  the  beneficent  adminis- 
tration of  a far  more  virtuous  ruler.  Still  it  is  impossible 
to  refuse  high  commendation  to  a man  who,  taken  from  a 
ledger  to  govern  an  empire,  overwhelmed  by  public  busi- 
ness, surrounded  by  people  as  busy  as  himself,  and  separa- 
ted by  thousands  of  leagues  from  almost  all  literary  society, 
gave,  both  by  his  example  and  by  his  munificence,  a great 
impulse  to  learning.  In  Persian  and  Arabic  literature  he 
was  deeply  skilled.  With  the  Sanscrit  he  was  not  himself 
acquainted  ; but  those  who  first  brought  that  language  to  the 
knowledge  of  the  European  students  owed  much  to  his 
Encouragement.  It  was  under  his  protection  that  the  Asi- 
atic So^wlvy  commenced  its  honorable  career.  That  dis- 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


623 


tinguished  body  selected  him  to  be  its  first  president ; but 
with  excellent  taste  and  feeling,  he  declined  the  honor  in 
favor  of  Sir  William  Jones.  But  the  chief  advantage  which 
the  students  of  Oriental  letters  derived  from  his  patronage 
remains  to  be  mentioned.  The  Pundits  of  Bengal  had 
always  looked  with  great  jealousy  on  the  attempts  of  for- 
eigners to  pry  into  those  mysteries  which  were  locked  up  in 
the  sacred  dialect.  The  Brahminical  religion  has  been  per- 
secuted by  the  Mahommedans.  What  the  Hindoos  knew 
of  the  spirit  of  the  Portuguese  government  might  war- 
rant them  in  apprehending  persecution  from  Christians. 
That  apprehension,  the  wisdom  and  moderation  of  Hastings 
removed.  He  was  the  first  foreign  ruler  who  succeeded  in 
gaining  the  confidence  of  the  hereditary  priests  of  India, 
and  who  induced  them  to  lay  open  to  English  scholars  the 
secrets  of  the  old  Brahminical  theology  and  jurisprudence. 

It  is  indeed  impossible  to  deny  that,  in  the  great  art  of 
inspiring  large  masses  of  human  beings  with  confidence  and 
attachment,  no  ruler  ever  surpassed  Hastings.  If  he  had 
made  himself  popular  with  the  English  by  giving  up  the 
Bengalees  to  extortion  and  oppression,  or  if,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  had  conciliated  the  Bengalees  and  alienated  the 
English,  there  would  have  been  no  cause  for  wonder. 
What  is  peculiar  to  him  is  that,  being  the  chief  of  a small 
band  of  strangers,  who  exercised  boundless  power  over  a 
great  indigenous  population,  he  made  himself  beloved  both 
by  the  subject  many  and  by  the  dominant  few.  The  affec- 
tion felt  for  him  by  the  civil  service  was  singularly  ardent 
and  constant.  Through  all  his  disasters  and  perils,  his 
brethren  stood  by  him  with  steadfast  loyalty.  The  army, 
at  the  same  time,  loved  him  as  armies  have  seldom  loved 
any  but  the  greatest  chiefs  who  have  led  them  to  victory. 
Even  in  his  disputes  with  distinguished  military  men,  he 
could  always  count  on  the  support  of  the  military  profession. 
While  such  was  his  empire  over  the  hearts  of  his  country- 
men, he  enjoyed  among  the  natives  a popularity,  such  as 
other  governors  have  perhaps  better  merited,  but  such  as  no 
other  governor  has  been  able  to  attain.  He  spoke  their 
vernacular  dialects  with  facility  and  precision.  He  was 
intimately  acquainted  with  their  feelings  and  usages.  On 
one  or  two  occasions,  for  great  ends,  he  deliberately  acted 
in  defiance  of  their  opinion  ; but  on  such  occasions  he  gained 
more  in  their  respect  than  he  lost  in  their  love.  In  general, 
he  carefully  avoided  all  that  could  shock  their  national  or 


MACAULAY*S  MTSCELtAKSOtTS  WRITERS. 

religious  prejudices.  His  administration  was  indeed  in 
many  respects  faulty ; but  the  Bengalee  standard  of  good 
government  was  not  high.  Under  the  Nabobs,  the  hurri- 
cane of  Mahratta  cavalry  had  p&Ssed  annually  over  the  rich 
alluvial  plain.  But  Q'Vfeh  the  Mahratta  shrank  from  a con- 
flict with  iie  mighty  children  of  the  sea ; and  the  immense 
i-iCe  harvests  of  the  Lower  Ganges  were  safely  gathered  in, 
under  the  protection  of  the  English  sword.  The  first  Eng- 
lish conquerors  had  been  more  rapacious  and  merciless  even 
than  the  Mahrattas ; but  that  generation  had  passed  away. 
Defective  as  was  the  police,  heavy  as  were  the  public  bur- 
dens, it  is  probable  that  the  oldest  man  in  Bengal  could  not 
recollect  a season  of  equal  security  and  prosperity.  For  the 
first  time  within  living  memory,  the  province  was  placed 
under  a government  strong  enough  to  prevent  others  from 
robbing,  and  not  inclined  to  play  the  robber  itself.  These 
things  inspired  good-will.  At  the  same  time  the  constant 
success  of  Hastings  and  the  manner  in  which  he  extricated 
himself  from  every  difficulty  made  him  an  object  of  super- 
stitious admiration ; and  the  more  than  regal  splendor  which 
he  sometimes  displayed  dazzled  a people  who  have  much  in 
common  with  children.  Even  now,  after  the  lapse  of  more 
than  fifty  years,  the  natives  of  India  still  talk  of  him  as  the 
greatest  of  the  English ; and  nurses  sing  children  to  sleep 
with  a jingling  ballad  about  the  fleet  horses  and  richly 
caparisoned  elephants  of  Sahib  Warren  Ilostein. 

The  gravest  offence  of  which  Hastings  was  guilty  did  not 
affect  his  popularity  with  the  people  of  Bengal ; for  those 
offences  were  committed  against  neighboring  states.  Those 
offences,  as  our  readers  must  have  perceived,  we  are  not 
disposed  to  vindicate ; yet,  in  order  that  the  censure  may 
be  justly  apportioned  to  the  transgression,  it  is  fit  that  the 
motive  of  the  criminal  should  be  taken  into  consideration. 
The  motive  which  prompted  the  worst  acts  of  Hastings  was 
misdirected  and  ill-regulated  public  spirit.  The  rules  of 
justice,  the  sentiments  of  humanity,  the  plighted  faith  of 
treaties,  were  in  his  view  as  nothing,  when  opposed  to  the 
immediate  interest  of  the  state.  This  is  no  justification, 
according  to  the  principles  either  of  morality,  or  of  what  we 
believe  to  be  identical  with  morality,  namely,  far-sighted 
policy.  Nevertheless  the  common  sense  of  mankind,  which 
in  questions  of  this  sort  seldom  goes  far  wrong,  will  always 
recognize  a distinction  between  crimes  which  originate  in  an 
inordinate  zeal  for  the  commonwealth,  and  crimes  which 


WASmSN  IJAS’lt&raB. 


625 


Originate  in  selfish  cupidity.  To  the  benefit  of  this  distinc- 
tion Hastings  is  fairly  entitled.  There  is,  we  conceive,  no 
reason  to  suspect  that  the  Rohilla  war,  the  revolution  of 
Benares,  or  the  spoliation  of  the  Princesses  of  Oude,  added 
a rupee  to  his  fortune.  We  will  not  affirm  that,  in  all  pe- 
cuniary dealings,  he  showed  that  punctilious  integrity,  that 
dread  of  the  faintest  appearance  of  evil,  which  is  now  the 
glory  of  the  Indian  civil  service.  But  when  the  school  in 
which  he  had  been  trained  and  the  temptations  to  which  he 
was  exposed  are  considered,  we  are  more  inclined  to  praise 
him  for  his  general  uprightness  with  respect  to  moneys  than 
rigidly  to  blame  him  for  a few  transactions  which  would 
now  be  called  indelicate  and  irregular,  but  which  even  now 
would  hardly  be  designated  as  corrupt!  A rapacious  man 
he  certainly  was  not.  Had  he  been  so,  he  would  infallibly 
have  returned  to  his  country  the  richest  subject  in  Europe. 
We  speak  within  compass,  when  we  say  that,  without  ap- 
plying any  extraordinary  pressure  he  might  easily  have 
obtained  from  the  zemindars  of  the  Company’s  provinces 
and  from  the  neighboring  princes,  in  the  course  of  thirteen 
years,  more  than  three  millions  Stirling,  and  might  have 
outshone  the  splendor  of  Carlton  House  and  of  the  Palais 
Hoy  at.  He  brought  home  a fortune  such  as  a Governor- 
General,  fond  of  state,  and  careless  of  thrift,  might  easily, 
during  so  long  a tenure  of  office,  save  out  of  his  legal  salary. 
Mrs.  Hastings,  we  are  afraid,  was  less  scrupulous.  It  was 
generally  believed  that  she  accepted  presents  with  great 
alacrity,  and  that  she  thus  formed,  without  the  connivance 
of  her  husband,  a private  hoard  amounting  to  several  lacs 
of  rupees.  We  are  the  more  inclined  to  give  credit  to  this 
story,  because  Mr.  Gleig,  who  cannot  but  have  heard  it, 
does  not,  as  far  as  we  have  observed,  notice  or  contra- 
dict it. 

The  influence  of  Mrs.  Hastings  over  her  husband  was 
indeed  such  that  she  might  easily  have  obtained  much  larger 
sums  than  she  was  ever  accused  of  receiving.  At  length 
her  health  began  to  give  way ; and  the  Governor-General, 
much  against  his  will,  was  compelled  to  -send  her  to  Eng- 
land. He  seems  to  have  loved  her  with  that  love  which  is 
peculiar  to  men  of  strong  minds,  to  men  whose  affection  is 
not  easily  won  or  widely  diffused.  The  talk  of  Calcutta 
ran  for  some  time  on  the  luxurious  manner  in  which  he 
fitted  up  the  round-huuse  of  an  I inhuman  for  her  accommo- 
dation, on  the  profusion  of  sandal- wood  and  carved  ivory 
Yol.  II. — 10 


626  macaulat’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

which  adorned  her  cabin,  and  on  the  thousands  of  rupeea 
which  had  been  expended  in  order  to  procure  for  her  the 
society  of  an  agreeable  female  companion  during  the  voyage. 
We  may  remark  here  that  the  letters  of  Hastings  to  his 
wife  are  exceedingly  characteristic.  They  are  tender,  and 
full  of  indications  of  esteem  and  confidence ; but,  at  the 
same  time,  a little  more  ceremonious  than  is  usual  in  so  in- 
timate a relation.  The  solemn  courtesy  with  which  he  com- 
pliments “ his  elegant  Marian  ” reminds  us  now  and  then  of 
the  dignified  air  with  which  Sir  Charles  Grandison  bowed 
over  Miss  Byron’s  hand  in  the  cedar  parlor. 

After  some  months,  Haslings  prepared  to  follow  his  wife 
to  England.  When  it  was  announced  that  he  was  about  to 
quit  his  office,  the  feeling  of  the  society  which  he  had  so 
long  governed  manifested  itself  by  many  signs.  Addresses 
poured  in  from  Europeans  and  Asiatics,  from  civil  function- 
aries, soldiers  and  traders.  On  the  day  on  which  he  de- 
livered up  the  keys  of  office,  a crowd  of  friends  and  admir- 
ers formed  a lane  to  the  quay  where  he  embarked.  Several 
barges  escorted  him  far  down  the  river ; and  some  attached 
friends  refused  to  quit  him  till  the  low  coast  of  Bengal  was 
fading  from  the  view,  and  till  the  pilot  was  leaving  the 
ship. 

Of  his  voyage  little  isJmown  except  that  he  amused  him- 
self with  books  and  with  his  pen;  and  that,  among  the 
compositions  by  which  he  beguiled  the  tediousness  of  that 
long  leisure,  was  a pleasing  imitation  of  Horace’s  Otium 
Divos  rogat . This  little  poem  was  inscribed  to  Mr.  Shore, 
afterwards  Lord  Teignmoutli,  a man  of  whose  integrity, 
humanity,  and  honor,  it  is  impossible  to  speak  too  highly, 
but  who,  like  some  other  excellent  members  of  the  civil  ser- 
vice, extended  to  the  conduct  of  his  friend  Hastings  an  in- 
dulgence of  which  his  own  conduct  never  stood  in  need. 

The  voyage  was,  for  those  times,  very  speedy.  Hastings 
was  little  more  than  four  months  on  the  sea.  In  June,  1785, 
he  landed  at  Plymouth,  posted  to  London,  appeared  at 
Court,  paid  his  respects  to  Leadenhall  Street,  and  then  re- 
tired with  his  wife  to  Cheltenham. 

He  was  greatly  pleased  with  his  reception.  The  King 
treated  him  with  marked  distinction.  The  Queen,  who  had 
already  incurred  much  censure  on  account  of  the  favor 
which,  in  spite  of  the  ordinary  severity  of  her  virtue,  she 
had  shown  to  the  “ elegant  Marian,”  was  not  less  gracious 
to  Hastings.  The  directors  received  him  in  a solemn  sitting ; 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


627 


and  their  chairman  read  to  him  a vote  of  thanks  which 
they  had  passed  without  one  dissentient  voice.  “ I find  my- 
self,” said  Hastings,  in  a letter  written  about  a quarter  of  a 
year  after  his  arrival  in  England,  “ I find  myself  everywhere, 
and  universally,  treated  with  evidences,  apparent  even  to 
my  own  observation,  that  I possess  the  good  opinion  of  my 
country.” 

The  confident  and  exulting  tone  of  his  correspondence 
about  this  time  is  the  more  remarkable,  because  he  had 
already  received  ample  notice  of  the  attack  which  was  in 
preparation.  Within  a week  after  he  landed  at  Plymouth, 
Burke  gave  notice  in  the  House  of  Commons  of  a motion 
seriously  affecting  a gentleman  lately  returned  from  India. 
The  session,  however,  was  then  so  far  advanced,  that  it  was 
impossible  to  enter  on  so  extensive  and  important  a subject. 

Hastings,  it  is  clear,  was  not  sensible  of  the  danger  of 
his  position.  Indeed  that  sagacity,  that  judgment,  that 
readiness  in  devising  expedients,  which  had  distinguished 
ihim  in  the  East,  seemed  now  to  have  forsaken  him ; not 
vhat  his  abilities  were  at  all  impaired  ; not  that  he  was  not 
still  the  same  man  who  had  triumphed  over  Francis  and 
Nuncomar,  who  had  made  the  Chief  Justice  and  the  Nabob 
Vizier  his  tools,  who  had  deposed  Cheyte  Sing,  and  repelled 
Hyder  Ali.  But  an  oak,  as  Mr.  Grattan  finely  said,  should 
aot  be  transplanted  at  fifty.  A man  who,  having  left  Eng* 
land  when  a boy,  returns  to  it  after  thirty  or  forty  yeari* 
passed  in  India,  will  find,  be  his  talents  what  they  may,  that 
he  has  much  both  to  learn  and  to  unlearn  before  he  can  take 
a place  among  English  statesmen.  The  working  of  a rep- 
resentative system,  the  war  of  parties,  the  arts  of  debate, 
the  influence  of  the  press,  are  startling  novelties  to  him. 
Surrounded  on  every  side  by  new  machines  and  new  tactics 
he  is  as  much  bewildered  as  Hannibal  would  have  been  at 
Waterloo,  or  Themistocles  at  Trafalgar.  His  very  acute- 
ness deludes  him.  His  very  vigor  causes  him  to  stumble. 
The  more  correct  his  maxims,  when  applied  to  the  state  of 
society  to  which  he  is  accustomed,  the  more  certain  they 
are  to  lead  him  astray.  This  was  strikingly  the  case  with 
Hastings.  In  India  he  had  a bad  hand ; but  he  was  master 
of  the  game,  and  he  won  every  stake.  In  England  he  held 
excellent  cards,  if  he  had  known  how  to  play  them  ; and  it 
was  chiefly  by  his  own  errors  that  he  was  brought  to  the 
verge  of  ruin. 

Of  all  his  errors  the  most  serious  was  perhaps  the  choice 


628 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


of  a champion.  Clive,  in  similar  circumstances,  had  made 
a singularly  happy  selection.  He  put  himself  into  the  hands 
of  Wedderburne,  afterwards  Lord  Loughborough,  one  of  the 
few  great  advocates  who  have  also  been  great  in  the  House 
of  Commons.  To  the  defence  of  Clive,  therefore,  nothing 
was  wanting,  neither  learning  nor  knowledge  of  the  world, 
neither  forensic  acuteness  nor  that  eloquence  which  charms 
political  assemblies.  Hastings  intrusted  his  interests  to  a 
very  different  person,  a major  in  the  Bengal  army,  named 
Scott.  This  gentleman  had  been  sent  over  from  India  some 
time  before  as  the  agent  of  the  Governor-General.  It  was 
rumored  that  his  services  were  rewarded  with  Oriental  mu- 
nificence ; and  we  believe  that  he  received  much  more  than 
Hastings  could  conveniently  spare.  The  Major  obtained  a 
seat  in  Parliament,  and  was  there  regarded  as  the  organ  of 
his  employer.  It  was  evidently  impossible  that  a gentleman 
so  situated  could  speak  with  the  authority  which  belongs  to 
an  independent  position.  Nor  had  the  agent  of  Hastings 
the  talents  necessary  for  obtaining  the  ear  of  an  assembly 
which,  accustomed  to  listen  to  great  orators,  had  naturally 
become  fastidious.  He  was  always  on  his  legs;  he  was 
very  tedious ; and  he  had  only  one  topic,  the  merits  and 
wrongs  of  Hastings.  Everybody  who  knows  the  House  of 
Commons  will  easily  guess  what  followed.  The  Major  was 
soon  considered  as  the  greatest  bore  of  his  time.  His  exer- 
tions were  not  confined  to  Parliament.  There  was  hardly 
a day  on  which  the  newspapers  did  not  contain  some  puff 
upon  Hastings,  signed  Asiaticus  or  Bengalensisy  but  known 
to  be  written  by  the  indefatigable  Scott ; and  hardly  a 
month  in  which  some  bulky  pamphlet  on  the  same  subject, 
and  from  the  same  pen,  did  not  pass  to  the  trunkinakers 
and  the  pastrycooks.  As  to  this  gentleman’s  capacity  for 
conducting  a delicate  question  through  Parliament,  our 
readers  will  want  no  evidence  beyond  that  which  they  will 
find  in  letters  preserved  in  these  volumes.  We  will  give  a 
single  specimen  of  his  temper  and  judgment.  He  designated 
the  greatest  man  then  living  as  “ that  reptile  Mr.  Burke.” 
In  spite,  however,  of  this  unfortunate  choice,  the  general 
aspect  of  affairs  was  favorable  to  Hastings.  The  King  was 
on  his  side.  The  Company  and  its  servants  were  zealous  in 
his  cause.  Among  public  men  he  had  many  ardent  friends. 
Such  were  Lord  Mansfield,  who  had  outlived  the  vigor  of 
his  body,  but  not  that  of  his  mind  ; and  Lord  Lansdowne, 
who,  though  unconnected  with  any  party,  retained  the  im* 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


629 


portance  which  belongs  to  great  talents  and  knowledge. 
The  ministers  were  generally  believed  to  be  favorable  to 
the  late  Governor-General.  They  owed  their  power  to  the 
clamor  which  had  been  raised  against  Mr.  Fox’s  East  India 
Bill.  The  authors  of  that  bill,  when  accused  of  invading 
vested  rights,  and  of  setting  up  powers  unknown  to  the  con- 
stitution, had  defended  themselves  by  pointing  to  the  crimes 
of  Hastings,  and  by  arguing  that  abuses  so  extraordinary 
justified  extraordinary  measures.  Those  who,  by  opposing 
that  bill,  had  raised  themselves  to  the  head  of  affairs,  would 
naturally  be  inclined  to  extenuate  the  evils  which  had  been 
made  the  plea  for  administering  so  violent  a remedy ; and 
such,  in  fact,  was  their  general  disposition.  The  Lord 
Chancellor  Thurlow,  in  particular,  whose  great  place  and 
force  of  intellect  gave  him  a weight  in  the  government  in- 
ferior only  to  that  of  Mr.  Pitt,  espoused  the  cause  of  Has- 
tings with  indecorous  violence.  Mr.  Pitt,  though  he  had 
censured  many  parts  of  the  Indian  system,  had  studiously 
abstained  from  saying  a word  against  the  late  chief  of  the 
Indian  government.  To  Major  Scott,  indeed,  the  young 
minister  had  in  private  extolled  Hastings  as  a great,  a won- 
derful man,  who  had  the  highest  claims  on  the  government. 
There  was  only  one  objection  to  granting  all  that  so  eminent 
a servant  of  the  public  could  ask.  The  resolution  of  censure 
still  remained  on  the  journals  of  the  House  of  Commons. 
That  resolution  was,  indeed,  unjust ; but,  till  it  was  re- 
scinded, could  the  minister  advise  the  King  to  bestow  any 
mark  of  approbation  on  the  person  censured?  If  Major 
Scott  is  to  be  trusted,  Mr.  Pitt  declared  that  this  was  the 
only  reason  which  prevented  the  advisers  of  the  Crown 
from  conferring  a peerage  on  the  late  Governor-General. 
Mr.  Dundas  was  the  only  important  member  of  the  admin- 
istration who  was  deeply  committed  to  a different  view  of 
the  subject.  He  had  moved  the  resolution  which  created 
the  difficulty.;  but  even  from  him  little  was  to  be  appre- 
hended. Since  he  had  presided  over  the  committee  on 
Eastern  affairs,  great  changes  had  taken  place.  He  was 
surrounded  by  new  allies ; he  had  fixed  his  hopes  on  new 
objects  ; and  whatever  may  have  been  his  good  qualities, — 
and  he  had  many, — flattery  itself  never  reckoned  rigid  con- 
sistency in  the  number. 

From  the  Ministry,  therefore,  Hastings  had  every  reason 
to  expect  support ; and  the  Ministry  was  very  powerful. 
The  Opposition  was  loud  and  vehement  against  him..  But  the 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

Opposition,  though  formidable  from  the  wealth  and  influence 
of  some  of  its  members,  and  from  the  admirable  talents  and 
eloquence  of  others,  was  outnumbered  in  parliament,  and 
odious  throughout  the  country.  Nor,  as  far  as  we  can  judge, 
was  the  Opposition  generally  desirous  to  engage  in  so  serious 
an  undertaking  as  the  impeachment  of  an  Indian  Governor. 
Such  an  impeachment  must  last  for  years.  It  must  impose 
on  the  chiefs  of  the  party  an  immense  load  of  labor.  Yet 
it  could  scarcely,  in  any  manner,  affect  the  event  of  the 
great  political  game.  The  followers  of  the  coalition  were 
therefore  more  inclined  to  revile  Hastings  than  to  prosecute 
him.  They  lost  no  opportunity  of  coupling  his  name  with 
the  names  of  the  most  hateful  tyrants  of  whom  history 
makes  mention.  The  wits  of  Brooks’s  aimed  their  keenest 
sarcasms  both  at  his  public  and  at  his  domestic  life.  Some 
fine  diamonds  which  he  had  presented,  as  it  was  rumored, 
to  the  royal  family,  and  a certain  richly  carved  ivory  bed 
which  the  Queen  had  done  him  the  honor  to  accept  from 
him,  were  favorite  subjects  of  ridicule.  One  lively  poet  pro- 
posed, that  the  great  acts  of  the  fair  Marian’s  present  hus- 
band should  be  immortalized  by  the  pencil  of  his  predeces- 
sor ; and  that  Imhoff  should  be  employed  to  embellish  the 
House  of  Commons  with  paintings  of  the  bleeding  Rohillas, 
of  Nuncomar  swinging,  of  Cheyte  Sing  letting  himself  down 
to  the  Ganges.  Another,  in  an  exquisitely  humorous  parody 
of  Virgil’s  third  eclogue,  propounded  the  question,  what 
that  mineral  could  be  of  which  the  rays  had  power  to  make 
the  most  austere  of  princesses  the  friend  of  a wanton.  A 
third  described,  with  gay  malevolence,  the  gorgeous  appear- 
ance of  Mrs.  Hastings  at  St.  James’s,  the  galaxy  of  jewels, 
torn  from  Indian  Begums,  which  adorned  her  head  dress, 
her  necklace  gleaming  with  future  wotes,  and  the  depending 
questions  that  shone  upon  her  ears.  Satirical  attacks  of  this 
description,  and  perhaps  a motion  for  a vote  of  censure, 
would  have  satisfied  the  great  body  of  the  Opposition.  But 
there  were  two  men  whose  indignation  was  not  to  be  so  ap- 
peased, Philip  Francis  and  Edmund  Burke. 

Francis  had  recently  entered  the  House  of  Commons, 
and  had  already  established  a character  there  for  industry 
and  ability.  He  labored  indeed  under  one  most  unfortu- 
nate defect,  want  of  fluency.  But  he  occasionally  expressed 
himself  with  a dignity  and  energy  worthy  of  the  greatest 
orators.  Before  he  had  been  many  days  in  parliament,  he 
incurred  the  bitter  dislike  of  Pitt,  who  constantly  treated 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


681 


him  with  as  much  asperity  as  the  laws  of  delate  would 
allow.  Neither  lapse  of  years  nor  change  of  scene  had  miti- 
gated the  enmities  which  Francis  had  brought  back  from 
the  East.  After  his  usual  fashion,  he  mistook  his  malevo- 
lence for  virtue,  nursed  it,  as  preachers  tell  us  that  we  ought 
to  nurse  our  good  dispositions,  and  paraded  it,  on  all  oc- 
casions, with  Pharisaical  ostentation. 

The  zeal  of  Burke  was  still  fiercer , but  it  was  far  purer. 
Men  unable  to  understand  the  elevation  of  his  mind  have 
tried  to  find  out  some  discreditable  motive  for  the  vehe- 
mence and  pertinacity  which  he  showed  on  this  occasion. 
But  they  have  altogether  failed.  The  idle  story  that  he  had 
some  private  slight  to  revenge  has  long  been  given  up,  even 
by  the  advocates  of  Hastings.  Mr.  Gleig  supposes  that 
Burke  was  actuated  by  party  spirit,  that  he  retained  a bit- 
ter remembrance  of  the  fall  of  the  coalition,  that  he  at- 
tributed that  fall  to  the  exertions  of  the  East  India  interest, 
and  that  he  considered  Hastings  as  the  head  and  the  repre- 
sentative of  that  interest.  This  explanation  seems  to  be  suf- 
ficiently refuted  by  a reference  to  dates.  The  hostility  of 
Burke  to  Hastings  commenced  long  before  the  coalition , 
and  lasted  long  after  Burke  had  become  a strenuous  sup- 
porter of ‘those  by  whom  the  coalition  had  been  defeated. 
It  began  when  Burke  and  Fox,  closely  allied  together,  were 
attacking  the  influence  of  the  crown,  and  calling  for  peace 
with  the  American  republic.  It  continued  till  Burke,  alien- 
ated from  Fox,  and  loaded  with  the  favors  of  the  crown,  died, 
preaching  a crusade  against  the  French  republic.  We 
surely  cannot  attribute  to  the  events  of  1784  an  enmity 
which  began  in  1781,  and  which  retained  undiminished  force 
long  after  persons  far  more  deeply  implicated  than  Hastings 
in  the  events  of  1784  had  been  cordially  forgiven.  And 
why  should  we  look  for  any  other  explanation  of  Burke’s 
conduct  than  that  which  we  find  on  the  surface  ? The  plain 
truth  is  that  Hastings  had  committed  some  great  crimes, 
and  that  the  thought  of  those  crimes  made  the  blood  of 
Burke  boil  in  his  veins.  For  Burke  was  a man  in  whom 
compassion  for  suffering,  and  hatred  of  injustice  and  tyr- 
anny, were  as  strong  as  in  Las  Casas  or  Clarkson.  And 
although  in  him,  as  in  Las  Casas  and  in  Clarkson,  these 
noble  feelings  were  alloyed  with  the  infirmity  which  belongs 
to  human  nature,  he  is,  like  them,  entitled  to  this  great 
praise,  that  he  devoted  years  of  intense  labor  to  the  service 
of  a people  with  whom  he  had  neither  blood  nor  language, 


632 


MACAULAY^  mSCfcl/LAKEOlTS  WRITtKG8» 


neither  religion  nor  manners  in  common,  and  from  whom 
no  requital,  no  thanks,  no  applause  could  be  expected. 

His  knowledge  of  India  was  such  as  few,  even  of  those 
Europeans  who  have  passed  many  years  in  that  country, 
have  attained,  and  such  as  certainly  was  never  attained  by 
any  public  man  who  had  not  quitted  Europe.  He  had 
studied  the  history,  the  laws,  and  the  usages  of  the  East 
with  an  industry,  such  as  is  seldom  found  united  t>)  so  much 
genius  and  so  much  sensibility.  Others  have  perhaps  been 
equally  laborious,  and  have  collected  an  equal  mass  of  mate- 
rials. But  the  manner  in  'which  Burke  brought  his  higher 
powers  of  intellect  to  work  on  statements  of  facts,  and  on 
tables  of  figures,  was  peculiar  to  himself.  In  every  part  of 
those  huge  bales  of  Indian  information  Avhich  repelled  almost 
all  other  readers,  his  mind,  at  once  philosophical  and  poet- 
ical, found  something  to  instruct  or  to  delight.  His  reason 
analysed  and  digested  those  vast  and  shapeless  masses  ; his 
imagination  animated  and  colored  them.  Out  of  darkness 
and  dulness,  and  confusion,  he  formed  a multitude  of  in- 
genious theories  and  vivid  pictures.  He  had,  in  the  highest 
degree,  that  noble  faculty  whereby  man  is  able  to  live  in 
the  past  and  in  the  future,  in  the  distant  and  in  the  unreal. 
India  and  its  inhabitants  Avere  not  to  him,  as  to  most  Eng- 
lishmen, mere  names  and  abstractions,  but  a real  country 
and  a real  people.  The  burning  sun,  the  strange  vegetation 
of  the  palm  and  the  cocoa  tree,  the  ricefield,  the  tank,  the 
huge  trees,  older  than  the  Mogul  empire,  under  which  the 
village  croAvds  assemble,  the  thatched  roof  of  the  peasant’s 
hut,  the  rich  tracery  of  the  mosque  where  the  imaum  prays 
Avith  his  face  to  Mecca,  the  drums,  and  banners,  and  gaudy 
idols,  the  devotee  SAvinging  in  the  air,  the  graceful  maiden 
Avith  the  pitcher  on  her  head,  descending  the  steps  to 
the  river-side,  the  black  faces,  the  long  beards,  the  yellow 
streaks  of  sect,  the  turbans  and  the  floAving  robes,  the  spears 
and  the  silver  maces,  the  elephants  with  their  canopies  of 
state,  the  gorgeous  palanquin  of  the  prince,  and  the  close  litter 
of  the  noble  lady,  all  these  things  were  to  him  as  the  objects 
amidst  which  his  OAvn  life  had  been  passed,  as  the  objects 
which  lay  on  the  road  between  Beaconsfield  and  St.  James’s 
Street.  All  India  Avas  present  to  the  eye  of  his  mind,  from 
the  halls  where  suitors  laid  gold  and  perfumes  at  the  feet  of 
sovereigns  to  the  wild  moor  Avhere  the  gypsy  camp  was 
pitched,  from  the  bazaar,  humming  like  a bee-hive  with  the 
crowed  of  buyers  and  sellers,  to  the  jungle  where  the  lonely 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


633 


courier  shakes  his  hunch  of  iron  rings  to  scare  away  the 
hyaenas.  He  had  just  as  lively  an  idea  of  the  insurrection 
at  Benares  as  of  Lord  George  Gordon’s  riots,  and  of  the  exe- 
cution of  JSTuncomar  as  of  the  execution  of  Dr.  Dodd.  Op- 
pression in  Bengal  was  to  him  the  same  thing  as  oppression 
in  the  streets  of  London. 

He  saw  that  Hastings  had  been  guilty  of  some  most  un- 
justifiable acts.  All  that  followed  was  natural  and  necessary 
in  a mind  like  Burke’s.  His  imagination  and  his  passions, 
once  excited,  hurried  him  beyond  the  bounds  of  justice  and 
good  sense.  His  reason,  powerful  as  it  was,  became  the 
slave  of  feelings  which  it  should  have  controlled.  His  in- 
dignation, virtuous  in  its  origin,  acquired  too  much  of  the 
character  of  personal  aversion.  He  could  see  no  mitigating 
circumstance,  no  redeeming  merit.  His  temper,  which, 
though  generous  and  affectionate,  had  always  been  irritable, 
had  now  been  made  almost  savage  by  bodily  infirmities  and 
mental  vexations.  Conscious  of  great  powers  and  great 
virtues,  he  found  himself,  in  age  and  poverty,  a mark  for 
the  hatred  of  a perfidious  court  and  a deluded  people.  In 
Parliament  his  eloquence  was  out  of  date.  A young  gen- 
eration, which  knew  him  not,  had  filled  the  House.  When- 
ever he  rose  to  speak,  his  voice  was  drowned  by  the  un- 
seemly interruption  of  lads  who  were  in  their  cradles  when 
his  orations  on  the  Stamp  Act  called  forth  the  applause  of 
the  great  Earl  of  Chatham.  These  things  had  produced  on 
his  proud  and  sensitive  spirit  an  effect  at  which  we  cannot 
wonder.  He  could  no  longer  discuss  any  question  with 
calmness,  or  make  allowance  for  honest  differences  of  opin- 
ion. Those  who  think  that  he  was  more  violent  and  acri- 
monious in  debates  about  India  than  on  other  occasions  are 
ill  informed  respecting  the  last  years  of  his  life.  In  the 
discussions  on  the  Commercial  Treaty  with  the  Court  of 
Versailles,  on  the  Regency,  on  the  French  Revolution,  he 
showed  even  more  virulence  than  in  conducting  the  im- 
peachment. Indeed  it  may  be  remarked  that  the  very  per- 
sons who  called  him  a mischievous  maniac,  for  condemning 
in  burning  words  the  Rohiila  war  and  the  spoliation  of  the 
Begums,  exalted  him  into  a prophet  as  soon  as  he  began  to 
declaim,  with  greater  vehemence,  and  not  with  greater 
reason,  against  the  taking  of  the  Bastile  and  the  insults 
offered  to  Marie  Antoinette.  To  us  he  appears  to  have  been 
neither  a maniac  in  the  former  case,  nor  a prophet  in  the 
latter,  but  in  bath  cases  a great  and  good  man,  led  into  ex* 


634  MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

travagance  by  a sensibility  which  domineered  oyer  all  his 
faculties. 

It  may  be  doubted  whether  the  personal  antipathy  of 
Francis,  or  the  nobler  indignation  of  Burke,  would  have  led 
their  party  to  adopt  extreme  measures  against  Hastings,  if 
his  own  conduct  had  been  judicious.  He  should  have  felt 
that,  great  as  his  public  services  had  been,  he  was  not  fault- 
less, and  should  have  been  content  to  make  his  escape, 
without  aspiring  to  the  honors  of  a triumph.  He  and  his 
agent  took  a different  view.  They  were  impatient  for  the 
rewards  which,  as  they  conceived,  were  deferred  only  till 
Burke’s  attack  should  be  over.  They  accordingly  resolved 
to  force  on  a decisive  action  with  an  enemy  for  whom,  if 
they  had  been  wise,  they  would  have  made  a bridge  of  gold. 
On  the  first  day  of  the  session  of  1786,  Major  Scott  re- 
minded Burke  of  the  notice  given  in  the  preceding  year,  and 
asked  whether  it  was  seriously  intended  to  bring  any  charge 
against  the  late  Governor-General.  This  challenge  left  no 
course  open  to  the  Opposition,  except  to  come  forward  as 
accusers,  or  to  acknowledge  themselves  calumniators.  The 
administration  of  Hastings  had  not  been  so  blameless,  nor 
was  the  great  party  of  Fox  and  North  so  feeble,  that  it  could 
be  prudent  to  venture  on  so  bold  a defiance.  The  leaders 
of  the  Opposition  instantly  returned  the  only  answer  which 
they  could  with  honor  return ; and  the  whole  party  was 
irrevocably  pledged  to  a prosecution. 

Burke  began  his  operations  by  applying  for  Papers. 
Some  of  the  documents  for  which  he  asked  were  refused  by 
the  ministers,  who,  in  the  debate,  held  language  such  as 
strongly  confirmed  the  prevailing  opinion,  that  they  intended 
to  support  Hastings.  In  April,  the  charges  were  laid  on 
the  table.  They  had  been  drawn  by  Burke  with  great 
ability,  though  in  a form  too  much  resembling  that  of  a 
pamphlet.  Hastings  was  furnished  with  a copy  of  the  ac- 
cusation ; and  it  was  intimated  to  him  that  he  might,  if  he 
thought  fit,  be  heard  in  his  own  defence  at  the  bar  of  the 
Commons. 

Here  again  Hastings  was  pursued  by  the  same  fatality, 
which  had  attended  him  ever  since  the  day  when  he  set 
foot  on  English  ground.  It  seemed  to  be  decreed  that  this 
man,  so  politic  and  so  successful  in  the  East,  should  commit 
nothing  but  blunders  in  Europe.  Any  judicious  adviser 
would  have  told  him  that  the  best  thing  which  he  could  do 
would  be  to  make  an  eloquent-  forcible,  and  affecting  or&« 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


635 


tion  at  the  bar  of  the  House ; but  that,  if  he  could  not 
trust  himself  to  speak,  and  found  it  necessary  to  read,  he 
ought  to  be  as  concise  as  possible.  Audiences  accustomed 
to  extemporaneous  debating  of  the  highest  excellence  are 
always  impatient  of  long  written  compositions.  Hastings, 
however,  sat  down  as  he  would  have  done  at  the  Govern- 
ment-house in  Bengal,  and  prepared  a paper  of  immense 
length,  That  paper,  if  recorded  on  the  consultations  of  an 
Indian  administration,  would  have  been  justly  praised  as  a 
very  able  minute.  But  it  was  now  out  of  place.  It  fell 
flat,  as  the  best  written  defence  must  have  fallen  flat,  on 
an  assembly  accustomed  to  the  animated  and  strenuous 
conflicts  of  Pitt  and  Fox.  The  members,  as  soon  as  their 
curiosity  about  the  face  and  demeanor  of  so  eminent  a 
stranger  was  satisfied,  walked  away  to  dinner,  and  left  Has- 
tings to  tell  his  story  till  midnight  to  the  clerks  and  the 
S er j ean  t-at-ar  m s . 

All  preliminary  steps  having  been  duly  taken,  Burke,  in 
the  beginningof  June,  brought  forward  the  charge  relating  to 
the  Rohilla  war.  He  acted  discreetly  in  placing  this  ac- 
cusation in  the  van  ; for  Dun  das  had  formerly  moved,  and 
the  House  had  adopted,  a resolution  condemning,  in  the 
most  severe  terms,  the  policy  followed  by  Hastings  with  re- 
gard to  Rohilcund.  Dundas  had  little,  or  rather,  nothing  to 
say  in  defence  of  his  own  consistency ; but  he  put  a bold  face 
on  the  matter,  and  opposed  the  motion.  Among  other  things, 
he  declared  that,  though  he  still  thought  the  Rohilla  war  un- 
justifiable, he  considered  the  services  which  Hastings  had 
subsequently  rendered  to  the  state  as  sufficient  to  atone  even 
for  so  great  an  offence.  Pitt  did  not  speak,  but  voted  with 
Dundas ; and  Hastings  was  absolved  by  a hundred  and  nine- 
teen votes  against  sixty-seven. 

Hastings  was  now  confident  of  victory.  It  seemed,  in- 
deed, that  he  had  reason  to  be  so.  The  Rohilla  war  was, 
of  all  his  measures,  that  which  his  accusers  might  with 
greatest  advantage  assail.  It  had  been  condemned  by  the 
Court  of  Directors.  It  had  been  condemned  by  the  House 
of  Commons.  It  had  been  condemned  by  Mr.  Dundas,  who 
had  since  become  the  chief  minister  of  the  Crown  for  Indian 
affairs.  Yet  Burke,  having  chosen  this  strong  ground,  had 
been  completely  defeated  on  it.  That  having  failed  here, 
he  should  succeed  on  any  point,  was  generally  thought  im- 
possible. It  was  rumored  at  the  clubs  and  coffee-houses 
that  one  or  perhaps  two  more  charges  would  be  brought  for 


6S6  MACAfTLAY*S  MtSCfiLLAKEOtfS  W&iTttmS, 

ward,  that  if,  on  those  charges,  the  sense  of  the  House  of 
Commons  should  be  against  impeachment,  the  Opposition 
would  let  the  matter  drop,  that  Hastings  would  be  immedi- 
ately raised  to  the  peerage,  decorated  with  the  star  of  the 
Bath,  sworn  of  the  privy  council,  and  invited  to  lend  the 
assistance  of  his  talents  and  experience  to  the  India  board. 
Lord  Thurlow,  indeed,  some  months  before,  had  spoken 
with  contempt  of  the  scruples  which  prevented  Pitt  from 
calling  Hastings  to  the  House  of  Lords ; and  had  even  said 
that,  if  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  was  afraid  of  the 
Commons,  there  was  nothing  to  prevent  the  Keeper  of  the 
Great  Seal  from  taking  the  royal  pleasure  about  a patent  of 
peerage.  The  very  title  was  chosen.  Hastings  was  to  be 
Lord  Daylesford.  For,  through  all  changes  of  scene  and 
changes  of  fortune,  remained  unchanged  his  attachment  to 
the  spot  which  had  witnessed  the  greatness  and  the  fall  of 
his  family,  and  which  had  borne  so  great  a part  in  the  first 
dreams  of  his  young  ambition. 

But  in  a very  few  days  these  fair  prospects  were  over- 
cast. On  the  thirteenth  of  June,  Mr.  Fox  brought  forward, 
with  great  ability  and  eloquence,  the  charge  respecting  the 
treatment  of  Cheyte  Sing.  Francis  followed  on  the  same 
side.  The  friends  of  Hastings  were  in  high  spirits  when  Pitt 
rose.  With  his  usual  abundance  and  felicity  of  language, 
the  Minister  gave  his  opinion  on  the  case.  He  maintained 
that  the  Governor-General  was  justified  in  calling  on  the 
Rajah  of  Benares  for  pecuniary  assistance,  and  imposing 
a fine  when  that  assistance  was  contumaciously  withheld. 
He  also  thought  that  the  conduct  of  the  Governor-Gen- 
eral during  the  insurrection  had  been  distinguished  by 
ability  and  presence  of  mind.  lie  censured,  with  great 
bitterness,  the  conduct  of  Francis,  both  in  India  and  in 
Parliament,  as  most  dishonest  and  malignant.  The  neces- 
sary inference  from  Pitt’s  arguments  seemed  to  be  that 
Hastings  ought  to  be  honorably  acquitted ; and  both  the 
friends  and  the  opponents  of  the  Minister  expected  from 
him  a declaration  to  that  effect.  To  the  astonishment  of  all 
parties,  he  concluded  by  saying  that,  though  he  thought  it 
right  in  Hastings  to  fine  Cheyte  Sing  for  contumacy,  yet 
the  amount  of  the  fine  was  too  great  for  the  occasion.  On 
this  ground,  and  on  this  ground  alone,  did  Mr.  Pitt,  ap- 
plauding every  other  part  of  the  conduct  of  Hastings  with 
regard  to  Benares,  declare  that  he  should  vote  in  favor  of 
Mr.  Fox’s  motion. 


WAtmm  ttAB'mms. 


m 

The  House  was  thunderstruck  ; and  it  well  might  be  so. 
For  the  wrong  done  to  Cheyte  Sing,  even  had  it  been  as 
flagitious  as  Fox  and  Francis  contended,  was  a trifle  when 
compared  with  the  horrors  which  had  been  inflicted  on 
Rohilcund.  But  if  Mr.  Pitt’s  view  of  the  case  of  Cheyte 
Sing  were  correct,  there  was  no  ground  for  an  impeachment, 
or  even  for  a vote  of  censure.  If  the  offence  of  Hastings  was 
really  no  more  than  this,  that,  having  a right  to  impose  a 
mulct,  the  amount  of  which  mulct  was  not  defined,  but  was 
left  to  be  settled  by  his  discretion,  he  had,  not  for  his  own 
advantage,  but  for  that  of  the  state,  demanded  too  much, 
was  this  an  offence  which  required  a criminal  proceeding  of 
the  highest  solemnity,  a criminal  proceeding,  to  which,  dur- 
ing sixty  years,  no  public  functionary  had  been  subjected? 
We  can  see,  we  think,  in  what  w ray  a man  of  sense  and  in- 
tegrity might  have  been  induced  to  take  any  course  respecting 
Hastings,  except  the  course  which  Mr.  Pitt  took.  Such  a 
man  might  have  thought  a great  example  necessary,  for  the 
preventing  of  injustice,  and  for  the  vindicating  of  the 
national  honor,  and  might,  on  that  ground,  have  voted  for 
impeachment  both  on  the  Rohilla  charge,  and  on  the  Benares 
charge.  Such  a man  might  have  thought  that  the  offences 
of  Hastings  had  been  atoned  for  by  great  services,  and 
might,  on  that  ground,  have  voted  against  the  impeachment 
on  both  charges.  With  great  diffidence  we  give  it  as  our 
opinion  that  the  most  correct  course  would,  on  the  whole, 
have  been  to  impeach  on  the  Rohilla  charge,  and  to  acquit 
on  the  Benares  charge.  Had  the  Benares  charge  appeared 
to  us  in  the  same  light  in  which  it  appears  to  Mr.  Pitt, 
we  should,  without  hesitation,  have  voted  for  acquittal  on 
that  charge.  The  one  course  which  it  is  inconceivable  that 
any  man  of  a tenth  part  of  Mr.  Pitt’s  abilities  can  have 
honestly  taken  was  the  course  which  he  took.  He  acquitted 
Hastings  on  the  Rohilla  charge.  He  softened  down  the 
Benares  charge  till  it  became  no  charge  at  all ; and  then  he 
pronounced  that  it  contained  matter  for  impeachment. 

Nor  must  it  be  forgotten  that  the  principal  reason  as- 
signed by  the  ministry  for  not  impeaching  Hastings  on  account 
of  the  Rohilla  war  was  this,  that  the  delinquencies  of  the 
early  part  of  his  administration  had  been  atoned  for  by  the 
excellence  of  the  later  part.  Was  it  not  most  extraordinary 
that  men  who  had  held  this  language  could  afterwards  vote 
that  the  later  part  of  his  administration  furnished  matter 
for  no  less  than  twenty  articles  of  impeachment  ? They 


638  MACAULAY  S MISCELLANEOUS  WRXTXtf<2§. 

first  represented  the  conduct  of  Hastings  in  1780  and  1781 
as  so  highly  meritorious  that,  like  works  of  supererogation  in 
the  Catholic  theology,  it  ought  to  be  efficacious  for  the  can- 
celling of  former  offences  ; and  they  then  prosecuted  him  for 
his  conduct  in  1780  and  1781. 

The  general  astonishment  was  the  greater,  because,  only 
twenty-four  hours  before,  the  members  on  whom  the  minister 
could  depend  had  received  the  usual  notes  from  the  Treasury, 
begging  them  to  be  in  their  places  and  to  vote  against  Mr. 
Fox’s  motion.  It  was  asserted  by  Mr.  Hastings,  that,  early 
in  the  morning  of  the  very  day  on  which  the  debate  took  place, 
Dun  das  called  on  Pitt,  woke  him,  and  was  closeted  with 
him  many  hours.  The  result  of  this  conference  was  a deter- 
mination to  give  up  the  late  Governor-General  to  the  ven- 
geance of  the  Opposition.  It  was  impossible  even  for  the 
most  powerful  minister  to  carry  all  his  followers  with  him 
in  so  strange  a course.  Several  persons  high  in  office,  the 
Attorney-General,  Mr.  Grenville,  and  Lord  Mulgrave,  di- 
vided against  Mr.  Pitt.'  But  the  devoted  adherents  who 
stood  by  the  head  of  the  government  without  asking  ques- 
tions were  sufficiently  numerous  to  turn  the  scale.  A hun- 
dred and  nineteen  members  voted  for  Mr.  Fox’s  motion; 
6eventy-nine  against  it.  Dundas  silently  followed  Pitt. 

That  good  and  great  man,  the  late  William  Wilberforce, 
often  related  the  events  of  tins  remarkable  night.  lie  de- 
scribed the  amazement  of  the  House,  and  the  bitter  reflec- 
tions which  were  muttered  against  the  Prime  Minister  by 
some  of  the  habitual  supporters  of  government.  Pitt  him- 
self appeared  to  feel  that  his  conduct  required  some . ex- 
planation. He  left  the  treasury  bench,  sat  for  some  time 
next  to  Mr.  Wilberforce,  and  very  earnestly  declared  that  he 
had  found  it  impossible,  as  a man  of  conscience,  to  stand 
any  longer,  by  Hastings.  The  business,  he  said,  was  too 
bad.  Mr.  Wilberforce,  we  are  bound  to  add,  fully  believed 
that  his  friend  was  sincere,  and  that  the  suspicions  to  which 
this  mysterious  affair  gave  rise  were  altogether  unfounded. 

Those  suspicions,  indeed,  were  such  as  it  is  painful  to 
mention.  The  friends  of  Hastings,  most  of  whom,  it  is  to 
be  observed,  generally  supported  the  administration,  affirmed 
that  the  motive  of  Pitt  and  Dundas  was  jealousy.  Hastings 
was  personally  a favorite  with  the  King.  He  was  the  idol 
of  the  East  India  Company  and  of  its  servants.  If  he  were 
absolved  by  the  Commons,  seated  among  the  Lords,  admit- 
ted to  the  Board  of  Control,  closely  allied  with  the  strong- 


"Warren  Hastings. 


639 


minded  and  imperious  Thurlow,  was  it  not  almost  certain 
that  lie  would  soon  draw  to  himself  the  entire  management 
of  Eastern  affairs  ? Was  it  not  possible  that  lie  might  be- 
come a formidable  rival  in  the  cabinet  ? It  had  probably 
got  abroad  that  very  singular  communications  had  taken 
place  between  Thurlow  and  Major  Scott,  and  that,  if  the 
First  Lord  of  the  Treasury  was  afraid  to  recommend  Has- 
tings for  a peerage,  the  Chancellor  was  ready  to  take  the 
responsibility  of  that  step  on  himself.  Of  all  ministers,  Pitt 
was  the  least  likely  to  submit  with  patience  to  such  an  en- 
croachment on  his  functions.  If  the  Commons  impeached 
Hastings,  all  danger  was  at  an  end.  The  proceeding,  how- 
ever it  might  terminate,  would  probably  last  some  years. 
In  the  mean  time,  the  accused  person  would  be  excluded 
from  honors  and  public  employments,  and  could  scarcely 
venture  even  to  pay  his  duty  at  court.  Such  were  the 
motives  attributed  by  a great  part  of  the  public  to  the  young 
minister,  whose  ruling  passion  was  generally  believed  to  be 
avarice  of  power. 

The  prorogation  soon  interrupted  the  discussions  re- 
specting Hastings.  In  the  following  year,  those  discussions 
were  resumed.  The  charge  touching  the  spoliation  of  the 
Begums  was  brought  forward  by  Sheridan,  in  a speech 
which  was  so  imperfectly  reported  that  it  may  be  said  to  be 
wholly  lost,  but  which  was,  without  doubt,  the  most  elabo- 
rately brilliant  of  all  the  productions  of  his  ingenious  mind. 
The  impression  which  it  produced  was  such  as  has  never 
been  equalled.  He  sat  down,  not  merely  amidst  cheering, 
but  amidst  the  loud  clapping  of  hands,  in  which  the  Lords 
below  the  bar  and  the  strangers  in  the  gallery  joined.  The 
excitement  of  the  House  was  such  that  no  other  speaker 
could  obtain  a hearing;  and  the  debate  was  adjourned. 
The  ferment  spread  fast  through  the  town.  Within  four 
and  twenty  hours,  Sheridan  was  offered  a thousand  poinds 
for  the  copyright  of  the  speech,  if  he  would  himself  correct 
it  for  the  press..  The  impression  made  by  this  remarkable 
display  of  eloquence  on  severe  and  experienced  critics, 
whose  discernment  may  be  supposed  to  have  been  quick- 
ened by  emulation,  ivas  deep  and  permanent.  Mr.  Wind- 
ham, twenty  years  later,  said  that  the  speech  deserved  all  its 
fame,  and  was,  in  spite  of  some  faults  of  taste,  such  as  were 
seldom  wanting  either  in  the  literary  or  in  the  parliamen- 
tary performances  of  Sheridan,  the  finest  that  had  been  de- 
livered within  the  memory  of  man,  Mr.  Fox?  about  thg 


640  MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

same  time,  being  asked  by  the  late  Lord  Holland  what  was 
the  best  speech  ever  made  in  the  House  of  Commons,  as- 
signed the  first  place,  without  hesitation,  to  the  great  oration 
of  Sheridan  on  the  Oude  charge. 

When  the  debate  was  resumed,  the  tide  ran  so  strongly 
against  the  accused  that  his  friends  w^ere  coughed  and 
scraped  down.  Pitt  declared  himself  for  Sheridan’s  motion  ; 
and  the  question  was  carried  by  a hundred  and  seventy-five 
votes  against  sixty-eight. 

The  Opposition,  flushed  with  victory  and  strongly  sup- 
ported by  the  public  sympathy,  proceeded  to  bring  forward 
a succession  of  charges  relating  chiefly  to  pecuniary  trans- 
actions. The  friends  of  Hastings  were  discouraged,  and, 
having  now  no  hope  of  being  able  to  avert  an  impeachment, 
were  not  very  strenuous  in  their  exertions.  At  length  the 
House,  having  agreed  to  twenty  articles  of  charge,  directed 
Burke  to  go  before  the  Lords,  and  to  impeach  the  late  Gov- 
ernor-General of  High  Crimes  and  Misdemeanors.  Hastings 
was  at  the  same  time  arrested  by  the  Serjeant-at-arms  and 
carried  to  the  bar  of  the  Peers. 

The  session  was  now  wdthin  ten  days  of  its  close.  It 
was,  therefore,  impossible  that  any  progress  could  be  made 
in  the  trial  till  the  next  year.  Hastings  was  admitted  to 
bail ; and  further  proceedings  were  postponed  till  the  Houses 
should  re-assemble. 

When  Parliament  met  in  the  following  winter,  the  Com- 
mons proceeded  to  elect  a committee  for  managing  the  im- 
peachment. Burke  stood  at  the  head ; and  with  him  were 
associated  most  of  the  leading  members  of  the  Opposition. 
But  when  the  name  of  Francis  was  read  a fierce  contention 
arose.  It  was  said  that  Francis  and  Hastings  were  notori- 
ously on  bad  terms,  that  they  had  been  at  feud  during 
many  years,  that  on  one  occasion  their  mutual  aversion  had 
impelled  them  to  seek  each  other’s  lives,  and  that  it  would 
be  improper  and  indelicate  to  select  a private  enemy  to  be 
a public  accuser.  It  was  urged  on  the  other  side  with  great 
force,  particularly  by  Mr.  Windham,  that  impartiality, 
though  the  first  duty  of  a judge,  had  never  been  reckoned 
among  the  qualities  of  an  advocate  ; that  in  the  ordinary 
administration  of  criminal  justice  among  the  English,  the  ag- 
grieved party,  the  very  last  person  who  ought  to  be  admit- 
ted into  the  jury-box,  is  the  prosecutor ; that  what  was 
wanted  in  a manager  was,  not  that  he  should  be  free  from 
bias,  but  that  be  should  be  able,  well-informed,  energetic* 


WAfcREX  ilAS-M-Gg. 


i>4: 

and  active.  The  ability  and  information  of  Francis  was  ad- 
mitted; and  the  very  animosity  with  which  he  was  re- 
proached, whether  a virtue  or  a vice,  was  at  least  a pledge 
for  his  energy  and  activity.  It  seems  difficult  to  refute 
these  arguments.  But  the  inveterate  hatred  borne  by  Fran- 
cis to  Hastings  had  excited  general  disgust.  The  House 
decided  that  Francis  should  not  be  a manager.  Pitt  voted 
with  the  majority,  Dundas  with  the  minority. 

In  the  meantime,  the  preparations  for  the  trial  had  pro- 
ceeded rapidly;  and  on  the  thirteenth  of  February,  1788, the 
sittings  of  the  Court  comm  enced.  There  have  been  spectacles 
more  dazzling  to  the  eye,  more  gorgeous  with  jewellery  and 
cloth  of  gold,  more  attractive  to  grown-up  children,  than  that 
which  was  then  exhibited  at  Westminster ; but,  perhaps, 
there  never  was  a spectacle  so  well  calculated  to  strike  a 
highly  cultivated,  a reflecting,  an  imaginative  mind.  All 
the  various  kinds  of  interest  which  belong  to  the  near  and 
to  the  distant,  to  the  present  and  to  the  past,  were  collected 
on  one  spot  and  in  one  hour.  All  the  talents  and  all  the 
accomplishments  which  are  developed  by  liberty  and  civili- 
zation were  now  displayed,  with  every  advantage  that  could 
be  derived  both  from  co-operation  and  from  contrast.  Every 
step  in  the  proceedings  carried  the  mind  either  backward, 
through  many  troubled  centuries,  to  the  days  when  the 
foundations  of  our  constitution  were  laid  ; or  far  away,  over 
boundless  seas  and  deserts,  to  dusky  nations  living  under 
strange  stars,  worshipping  strange  gods,  and  writing  strange 
characters  from  right  to  left.  The  High  Court  of  Parlia- 
ment was  to  sit,  according  to  forms  handed  down  from  the 
days  of  the  Plantagenets,  on  an  Englishman  accused  of  ex- 
ercising tyranny  over  the  lord  of  the  holy  city  of  Benares, 
and  over  the  ladies  of  the  princely  house  of  Oude. 

The  place  was  worthy  of  such  a trial.  It  was  the  great 
hall  of  William  Rufus,  the  hall  which  had  resounded  with 
acclamations  at  the  inauguration  of  thirty  kings,  the  hall 
which  had  witnessed  the  just  sentence  of  Bacon  and  the  just 
absolution  of  Somers,  the  hall  where  the  eloquence  of  Straf- 
ford had  for  a moment  awed  and  melted  a victorious  party 
inflamed  with  just  resentment,  the  hall  where  Charles  had 
confronted  the  High  Court  of  Justice  with  the  placid  cour- 
age which  has  half  redeemed  his  fame.  Neither  military 
nor  civil  pomp  was  wanting.  The  avenues  were  lined  with 
grenadiers.  The  streets  were  kept  clear  by  cavalry.  The 
peers,  robed  in  gold  and  ermine,  were  marshalled  by  the 
Yol.  II.— 41 


642  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wniTmas, 

heralds  under  Garter  King-at-arms,  The  judges  in  their 
vestments  of  state  attended  to  give  advice  on  points  of  law. 
Near  a hundred  and  seventy  lords,  three  fourths  of  the  Up- 
per House  as  the  Upper  House  then  was,  walked  in  solemn 
order  from  their  usual  place  of  assembling  to  the  tribunal. 
The  junior  Baron  present  lead  the  way,  George  Eliott,  Lord 
Ileathfield,  recently  ennobled  for  his  memorable  defence  of 
Gibraltar  against  the  fleets  and  armies  of  France  and  Spain. 
The  long  procession  was  closed  by  the  Duke  of  Norfolk, 
Earl  Marshal  of  the  realm,  by  the  great  dignitaries,  and  by 
the  brothers  and  sons  of  the  King.  Last  of  all  came  the 
Prince  of  Wales,  conspicuous  by  his  fine  person  and  noble 
bearing.  The  gray  old  walls  were  hung  with  scarlet.  The 
long  galleries  were  crowded  by  an  audience  such  as  has 
rarely  excited  the  fears  or  the  emulations  of  an  orator. 
There  were  gathered  together,  from  all  parts  of  a great,  free, 
enlightened,  and  prosperous  empire,  grace  and  female  love- 
liness, wit  and  learning,  the  representatives  of  every  science 
and  of  every  art.  There  were  seated  round  the  Queen  the 
fair-haired  young  daughters  of  the  House  of  Brunswick. 
There  the  Ambassadors  of  great  Kings  and  Commonwealths 
gazed  with  admiration  on  a spectacle  which  no  other  coun- 
try in  the  world  could  present.  There  Siddons,  in  the 
prime  of  her  majestic  beauty,  looked  with  emotion  on  a 
scene  surpassing  all  the  imitations  of  the  stage.  There  the 
historian  of  the  Roman  Empire  thought  of  the  days  wdieit 
Cicero  pleaded  the  cause  of  Sicily  against  Verres,  and  when, 
before  a senate  which  still  retained  some  show  of  freedom, 
Tacitus  thundered  against  the  oppressor  of  Africa.  There 
were  seen  side  by  side  the  greatest  painter  and  the  great- 
est scholar  of  the  age.  The  spectacle  had  allured  Rey-* 
nolds  from  that  easel  which  preserved  to  us  the  thought- 
ful foreheads  of  so  many  writers  and  statesmen,  and  the 
sweet  smiles  of  so  many  noble  matrons.  It  had  induced 
Parr  to  suspend  his  labors  in  that  dark  and  profound  mine 
from  which  he  had  extracted  a vast  treasure  of  erudi- 
tion, a treasure  too  often  buried  in  the  earth,  too  often  pa- 
raded with  injudicious  and  inelegant  ostentation,  but  still 
precious,  massive,  and  splendid.  There  appeared  the  vo- 
luptuous charms  of  her  to  whom  the  heir  of  the  throne  had 
in  secret  plighted  his  faith.  There  too  was  she,  the  beauti- 
ful mother  of  a beautiful  race,  the  Saint  Cecilia,  whose  deli- 
cate features,  lighted  up  by  love  and  music,  art  has  rescued 
from  the  common  decay.  There  were  the  members  of  that 


WARREN  HASTINGS- 


643 


brilliant  society  which  quoted,  criticized,  and  exchanged 
repartees,  under  the  rich  peacock-hangings  of  Mrs.  Mon 
tague.  And  there  the  ladies  whose  lips,  more  persuasive 
than  those  of  Fox  himself,  had  carried  the  Westminster 
election  against  palace  and  treasury,  shone  around  Geor** 
giana  Duchess  of  Devonshire. 

The  Serjeants  made  proclamation.  Hastings  advanced 
to  the  bar,  and  bent  his  knee.  The  culprit  was  indeed 
not  unworthy  of  that  great  presence.  He  had  ruled  an 
extensive  and  populous  country,  had  made  laws  and  trea- 
ties, had  sent  forth  armies,  had  set  up  and  pulled  down 
princes.  And  in  his  high  place  he  had  so  borne  himself, 
that  all  had  feared  him,  that  most  had  loved  him,  and  that 
hatred  itself  could  deny  him  no  title  to  glory,  except  virtue, 
lie  looked  like  a great  man,  and  not  like  a bad  man.  A 
person  small  and  emaciated,  yet  deriving  dignity  from  a 
carriage  which,  while  it  indicated  deference  to  the  court, 
indicated  also  habitual  self-possession  and  self-respect,  a 
high  and  intellectual  forehead,  a brow  pensive,  but  not 
gloomy,  a mouth  of  inflexible  decision,  a face  pale  and  worn, 
but  serene,  on  which  was  written,  as  legibly  as  under  the 
picture  in  the  council-chamber  at  Calcutta,  Mens  cequa  in 
arduis  ; such  was  the  aspect  with  which  the  great  Proconsul 
presented  himself  to  his  judges. 

His  counsel  accompanied  him,  men  all  of  whom  were 
afterwards  raised  by  their  talents  and  learning  to  the  high- 
est posts  in  their  profession,  the  bold  and  strong-minded 
Law,  afterwards  Chief  Justice  of  the  King’s  Bench ; the 
more  humane  and  eloquent  Dallas,  afterwards  Chief  Justice 
of  the  Common  Pleas  ; and  Ploiner  who,  near  twenty  years 
later,  successfully  conducted  in  the  same  high  court  the  de- 
fence of  Lord  Melville,  and  subsequently  became  Vice- 
chancellor  and  Master  of  the  Polls. 

But  neither  the  culprit  nor  his  advocates  attracted  so 
much  notice  as  the  accusers.  In  the  midst  of  the  blaze  of 
red  drapery,  a space  had  been  fitted  up  with  green  benches 
and  tables  for  the  Commons.  The  managers,  with  Burke 
at  their  head,  appeared  in  full  dress.  The  collectors  of  gos- 
sip did  not  fail  to  remark  that  even  Fox,  generally  so  re- 
gardless of  his  appearance,  had  paid  to  the  illustrious  tri- 
bunal the  compliment  of  wearing  a bag  and  sword.  Pitt 
had  refused  to  be  one  of  the  conductors  of  the  impeach- 
ment; and  his  commanding,  copious,  and  sonorous  elo- 
quence was  wanting  to  that  great  muster  of  various  talents* 


644 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


Age  and  blindness  had  unfitted  Lord  North  tor  the  duties  of 
a public  prosecutor ; and  his  friends  were  left  without  the 
help  of  his  excellent  sense,  his  tact,  and  his  urbanity.  But, 
in  spite  of  the  absence  of  these  two  distinguished  members 
of  the  Lower  House,  the  box  in  which  the  managers  stood 
contained  an  array  of  speakers  such  as  perhaps  had  not  aj> 
peared  together  since  the  great  age  of  Athenian  eloquence. 
There  were  Fox  and  Sheridan,  the  English  Demosthenes 
and  the  English  Hyperides.  There  was  Burke,  ignor  ini 
indeed,  or  negligent  of  the  art  of  adapting  his  reasoning 
and  his  style  to  the  capacity  and  taste  of  his  hearers,  but  in 
amplitude  of  comprehension  and  richness  of  imagination 
superior  to  every  orator,  ancient  or  modern.  There,  with 
eyes  reverentially  fixed  on  Burke,  appeared  the  finest  gen- 
tleman of  the  age,  his  form  developed  by  every  manly  ex- 
ercise, his  face  beaming  with  intelligence  and  spirit,  the  in- 
genious, the  chivalrous,  the  higli-souled  Windham.  Nor, 
though  surrounded  by  such  men,  did  the  youngest  manager 
pass  unnoticed.  At  an  age  when  most  of  those  who  dis- 
tinguish themselves  in  life  are  still  contending  for  prizes  and 
fellowships  at  college,  he  had  won  for  himself  a conspicuous  | 
place  in  parliament.  No  advantage  of  fortune  or  connec- 
tion was  wanting  that  could  set  off  to  the  height  his  splendid 
talents  and  his  unblemished  honor.  At  twenty-three  he  had 
been  thought  worthy  to  be  ranked  with  the  veteran  states- 
men who  appeared  as  the  delegates  of  the  British  Com- 
mons, at  the  bar  of  the  British  nobility.  All  who  stood 
at  that  bar,  save  him  alone,  are  gone,  culprit,  advocates,  ac- 
cusers. To  the  generation  which  is  now  in  the  vigor  of 
life,  he  is  the  sole  representative  of  a great  age  which  has 
passed  away.  But  those  who,  within  the  last  ten  years, 
have  listened  with  delight,  till  the  morning  sun  shone  on 
the  tapestries  of  the  House  of  Lords,  to  the  lofty  and  ank 
mated  eloquence  of  Charles  Earl  Grey,  are  able  to  form 
some  estimate  of  the  powers  of  a race  of  men  among  whom 
he  was  not  the  foremost. 

The  charges  and  the  answers  of  Hastings  were  first  read. 

The  ceremony  occupied  two  whole  days,  and  was  rendered 
less  tedious  than  it  would  otherwise  have  been  by  the  silver  Jlj 
voice  and  just  emphasis  of  Cowper,  the  clerk  of  the  court, 
a near  relation  of  the  amiable  poet.  On  the  third  day 
Burke  rose.  Four  sittings  were  occupied  by  his  opening  j 
speech,  which  was  intended  to  be  a general  introduction  to 
all  the  charges.  With  an  exuberance  of  thought  and  a 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


645 


splendor  of  diction  which  more  than  satisfied  the  highly 
raised  expectation  of  the  audience,  he  described  the  character 
and  institutions  of  the  natives  of  India,  recounted  the  circum- 
stances in  which  the  Asiatic  empire  of  Britain  had  originated, 
and  set  forth  the  constitution  of  the  Company  and  of  the 
English  presidencies.  Having  thus  attempted  to  communi- 
cate to  his  hearers  an  idea  of  Eastern  society,  as  vivid  as 
that  which  existed  in  his  own  mind,  he  proceeded  to  arraign 
the  administration  of  Hastings  as  systematically  conducted 
in  defiance  of  morality  and  public  law.  The  energy  and 
pathos  of  the  great  orator  extorted  expressions  of  unwonted 
admiration  from  the  stern  and  hostile  Chancellor,  and,  for 
a moment,  seemed  to  pierce  even  the  resolute  heart  of 
the  defendant.  The  ladies  in  the  galleries,  unaccus- 
tomed to  such  displays  of  eloquence,  excited  by  the  so- 
lemnity of  the  occasion,  and  perhaps  not  unwilling  to  dis- 
play their  taste  and  sensibility,  were  in  a state  of  uncontrol- 
lable emotion.  Handkerchiefs  were  pulled  out  ; smelling 
bottles  were  handed  round ; hysterical  sobs  and  screams 
were  heard;  and  Mrs.  Sheridan  was  carried  out  in  a fit.  At 
length  the  orator  concluded.  Raising  his  voice  till  the  old 
arches  of  Irish  oak  resounded,  “ Therefore,”  said  he,  “ hath 
it  with  all  confidence  been  ordered,  by  the  Commons  of 
Great  Britain,  that  I impeach  Warren  Hastings  of  high 
crimes  and  misdemeanors.  I impeach  him  in  the  name  of 
the  Commons’  House  of  Parliament,  whose  trust  he  has  be- 
trayed. I impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  English  nation, 
whose  ancient  honor  he  has  sullied.  I impeach  him  in  the 
name  of  the  people  of  India,  whose  rights  he  has  trodden 
under  foot,  and  whose  country  he  has  turned  into  a desert. 
Lastly,  in  the  name  of  human  nature  itself,  in  the  name  of 
both  sexes,  in  the  name  of  every  age,  in  the  name  of  every 
rank,  I impeach  the  common  enemy  and  oppressor  of 
all ! ” 

When  the  deep  murmur  of  various  emotions  had  sub- 
sided, Mr.  Fox  rose  to  address  the  Lords  respecting  the 
course  of  proceeding  to  be  followed.  The  wish  of  the  ac- 
cusers was  that  the  Court  would  bring  to  a close  the  investi- 
gation of  the  first  charge  before  the  second  was  opened. 
The  wish  of  Hastings  and  of  his  counsel  was  that  the  man- 
agers should  open  all  the  charges,  and  produce  all  the  evi- 
dence for  the  prosecution,  before  the  defence  began.  The 
Lords  retired  to  their  own  House  to  consider  the  question. 
The  Chancellor  took  the  side  of  Hastings.  Lord  Lougb- 


646 


MACAULAl'S  MISCELLAN'EOtrS  WRITINGS* 


borough,  who  was  now  in  opposition,  supported  the  demand 
of  the  managers.  The  division  showed  which  way  the  in- 
clination of  the  tribunal  leaned.  A majority  of  near  three 
to  one  decided  in  favor  of  the  course  for  which  Hastings 
contended. 

When  the  Court  sat  again,  Mr.  Fox,  assisted  by  Mr. 
Grey,  opened  the  charge  respecting  Cheyte  Sing,  and  several 
days  were  spent  in  reading  papers  and  hearing  witnesses. 
The  next  article  was  that  relating  to  the  Princesses  of  Oude, 
The  conduct  of  this  part  of  the  case  was  intrusted  to  Sheri- 
dan. The  curiosity  of  the  public  to  hear  him  was  unbound- 
ed. His  sparkling  and  highly  finished  declamation  lasted 
two  days ; but  the  Hall  was  crowded  to  suffocation  during 
the  whole  time.  It  was  said  that  fifty  guineas  had  been 
paid  for  a single  ticket.  Sheridan,  when  he  concluded,  con- 
trived, with  a knowledge  of  stage  effect  which  his  father 
might  have  envied,  to  sink  back,  as  if  exhausted,  into  the 
arms  of  Burke,  who  hugged  him  with  the  energy  of  gen- 
erous admiration. 

June  was  now  far  advanced.  The  session  could  not  last 
much  longer ; and  the  progress  which  had  been  made  in  the 
impeachment  was  not  very  satisfactory.  There  were  twenty 
charges.  On  two  only  of  these  had  even  the  case  for  the 
prosecution  been  heard  ; and  it  was  now  a year  since  Has- 
tings had  been  admitted  to  bail. 

The  interest  taken  by  the  public  in  the  trial  was  great 
when  the  Court  began  to  sit,  and  rose  to  'the  height  when 
Sheridan  spoke  on  the  charge  relating  to  the  Begums. 
F rom  that  time  the  excitement  went  down  fast.  The  spec- 
tacle had  lost  the  attraction  of  novelty.  The  great  displays 
of  rhetoric  were  over.  What  was  behind  was  not  of  a 
nature  to  entice  men  of  letters  from  their  books  in  the 
morning,  or  to  tempt  ladies  who  had  left  the  masquerade  at 
two  to  be  out  of  bed  before  eight.  There  remained  exami- 
nations and  cross-examinations.  There  remained  statements 
of  accounts.  There  remained  the  reading  of  papers,  filled 
with  words  unintelligible  to  English  ears,  with  lacs  and 
crores,  zemindars  and  aurnils,  surmuds  and  perwannahs, 
jaghires  and  nuzzurs.  There  remained  bickerings,  not 
always  carried  on  with  the  best  taste  or  with  the  best  tem- 
per, between  the  managers  of  the  impeachment  and  the 
counsel  for  the  defence,  particularly  between  Mr.  Burke  and 
Mr.  Law.  There  remained  the  endless  marches  and  counter 
marches  of  the  Peers  between  their  House  and  the  Hail 


'WAftHHN  HASTINGS. 


64? 


for  as  often  as  a point  of  law  was  to  be  discussed,  their 
Lordships  retired  to  discuss  it  apart ; and  the, consequence 
was,  as  a Peer  wittily  said,  that  the  judges  walked  and  the 
trial  stood  still. 

It  is  to  be  added  that,  in  the  spring  of  1788,  when  the 
'rial  commenced,  no  important  question,  either  of  domestic 
or  foreign  policy,  occupied  the  public  mind.  The  proceed- 
ing in  Westminster  Hall,  therefore,  naturally  attracted  most 
of  the  attention  of  Parliament  and  of  the  country.  It  was 
the  one  great  event  of  that  season.  But  in  the  following 
year  the  King’s  illness,  the  debates  on  the  Regency,  the 
expectation  Of  a change  of  ministry,  completely  diverted 
public  attention  from  Indian  affairs  ; and  within  a fortnight- 
after  George  the  Third  had  returned  thanks  in  St.  Paul’s  for 
his  recovery,  the  States-General  of  France  met  at  Versailles, 
In  the  midst  of  the  agitation  produced  by  these  events,  the 
impeachment  was  for  a time  almost  forgotten. 

The  trial  in  the  Hall  went  on  languidly.  In  the  session 
of  1788,  when  the  proceedings  had  the  interest  of  novelty, 
and  when  the  Peers  had  little  other  business  before  them, 
only  ^hirty-five  days  were  given  to  the  impeachment.  In 
1789,  the  Regency  Bill  occupied  the  Upper  House  till  the 
session  was  far  advanced.  When  the  King  recovered  the 
circuits  were  beginning.  The  judges  left  town  ; the  Lords 
waited  for  the  return  of  the  oracles  of  jurisprudence;  and 
the  consequence  was  that  during  the  w hole  year  only  seven- 
teen days  were  given  to  the  case  of  Hastings.  It  was  clear 
that  the  matter  would  be  protracted  to  a length  unpre- 
cedented in  the  annals  of  criminal  law. 

In  truth,  it  is  impossible  to  deny  that  impeachment, 
though  it  is  a fine  ceremony,  and  though  it  may  have  been 
useful  in  the  seventeenth  century,  is  not  a proceeding  from 
which  much  good  can  now  be  expected.  Whatever  con- 
fidence may  be  placed  in  the  decision  of  the  Peers  on  an 
appeal  arising  out  of  ordinary  litigation,  it  is  certain  that  no 
man  has  the  least  confidence  in  their  impartiality,  w7hen  a 
great  public  functionary,  charged  with  a great  state  crime, 
is  brought  to  their  bar.  They  are  all  politicians.  There  is 
hardly  one  among  them  whose  vote  on  an  impeachment  may 
not  be  confidently  predicted  before  a witness  has  been  ex- 
amined ; and,  even  if  it  were  possible  to  rely  on  their  justice, 
they  wrould  still  be  quite  unfit  to  try  such  a cause  as  that  of 
Hastings.  They  sit  only  during  half  the  year.  They  have 
to  transact  much  legislative  and  much  judicial  business 


648 


MACAULAY* S MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


The  law-lords,  whose  advice  is  required  to  guide  the  un» 
learned  majority,  are  employed  daily  in  administering 
justice  elsewhere.  It  is  impossible,  therefore,  that  during  a 
busy  session,  the  Upper  House  should  give  more  than  a few 
days  to  an  impeachment.  To  expect  that  their  Lordships 
would  give  up  partridge-shooting,  in  order  to  bring  the 
greatest  delinquent  to  speedy  justice,  or  to  relieve  accused 
innocence  by  speedy  acquittal,  would  be  unreasonable 
indeed.  A well  constituted  tribunal,  sitting  regularly  six 
days  in  the  week,  and  nine  hours  in  the  day,  would  have 
brought  the  trial  of  Hastings  to  a close  in  less  than  three 
months.  The  Lords  had  not  finished  their  work  in  seven 
years. 

The  result  ceased  to  be  matter  of  doubt,  from  the  time 
when  the  Lords  resolved  that  they  would  be  guided  by  the 
rules  of  evidence  which  are  received  in  the  inferior  courts 
of  the  realm.  Those  rules,  it  is  well  known,  exclude  much 
information  which  would  be  quite  sufficient  to  determine 
the  conduct  of  any  reasonable  man,  in  the  most  important 
transactions  of  private  life.  These  rules,  at  every  assizes, 
save  scores  of  culprits  whom  judges,  jury,  and  spectators, 
firmly  believe  to  be  guilty.  But  when  those  rules  were 
rigidly  applied  to  offences  committed  many  years  beiore,  at 
the  distance  of  many  thousands  of  miles,  conviction  was,  of 
course,  out  of  the  question.  We  do  not  blame  the  accused 
and  his  counsel  for  availing  themselves  of  every  legal  ad- 
vantage in  order  to  obtain  an  acquittal.  But  it  is  clear  that 
an  acquittal  so  obtained  cannot  be  pleaded  in  bar  of  the 
judgment  of  history. 

Several  attempts  were  made  by  the  friends  of  Hastings 
to  put  a stop  to  the  trial.  In  1789  they  proposed  a vote  of 
censure  upon  Burke,  for  some  violent  language  which  he 
had  used  respecting  the  death  of  Nuncomar  and  the  connec- 
tion between  Hastings  and  Impey.  Burke  was  then  un- 
popular in  the  last  degree  both  with  the  House  and  with  the 
country.  The  asperity  and  indecency  of  some  expressions 
which  he  had  used  during  the  debates  on  the  Regency  had 
annoyed  even  his  warmest  friends.  The  vote  of  censure  was 
carried  ; and  those  who  had  moved  it  hoped  that  the  mansu 
gers  would  resign  in  disgust.  Burke  was  deeply  hurt.  But 
his  zeal  for  what  he  considered  as  the  cause  of  justice  and 
mercy  triumphed  over  his  personal  feelings.  He  received 
the  censure  of  the  House  with  dignity  and  meekness,  and 
declared  that  no  personal  mortification  or  humiliation  should 


WARREN  HASTINGS.  649 

induce  him  to  flinch  from  the  sacred  duty  which  he  had 
undertaken. 

In  the  following  year  the  Parliament  was  dissolved  ; and 
the  friends  of  Hastings  entertained  a hope  that  the  new 
House  of  Commons  might  not  be  disposed  to  go  on  with 
the  impeachment.  They  began  by  maintaining  that  the 
whole  proceeding  was  terminated  by  the  dissolution.  De- 
feated on  this  point,  they  made  a direct  motion  that  the  im- 
peachment should  be  dropped  ; but  they  were  defeated  by 
the  combined  forces  of  the  Government  and  the  Opposition. 
It  was,  however,  resolved  that>  for  the  sake  of  expedition, 
many  of  the  articles  should  be  withdrawn.  In  truth,  had 
not  some  such  measure  been  adopted,  the  trial  would  have 
lasted  till  the  defendant  was  in  his  grave. 

At  length,  in  the  spring  of  1795,  the  decision  was  pro- 
nounced, near  eight  years  after  Hastings  had  been  brought 
by  the  Serjeant-at-arms  of  the  Commons  to  the  bar  of  the 
Lords.  On  the  last  day  of  this  great  procedure  the  public 
curiosity,  long  suspended,  seemed  to  be  revived.  Anxiety 
about  the  judgment  there  could  be  none ; for  it  had  been 
fully  ascertained  that  there  was  a great  majority  for  the  de- 
fendant. Nevertheless  many  wished  to  see  the  pageant,  and 
the  Hall  was  as  much  crowded  as  on  the  first  day.  But 
those  who,  having  been  present  on  the  first  day,  now  bore  a 
part  in  the  proceedings  of  the  last,  were  few ; and  most  of 
those  few  were  altered  men. 

As  Hastings  himself  said,  the  arraignment  had  taken 
place  before  one  generation,  and  the  judgment  was  pro- 
nounced by  another.  The  spectator  could  not  look  at  the 
woolsack,  or  at  the  red  benches  of  the  Peers,  or  at  the  green 
benches  of  the  Commons,  without  seeing  something  that  re- 
minded him  of  the  instability  of  all  human  things,  of  the  in- 
stability of  power  and  fame  and  life,  of  the  more  lamentable 
instability  of  friendship.  The  great  seal  was  borne  before 
Lord  Loughborough,  who,  when  the  trial  commenced,  was 
a fierce  opponent  of  Mr.  Pitt’s  government,  and  who  was 
now  a member  of  that  government,  while  Thurlow,  who  pre- 
sided in  the  Court  when  it  first  sat,  estranged  from  all  his 
old  allies,  sat  scowling  among  the  junior  barons.  Of  about 
a hundred  and  sixty  nobles  who  walked  in  the  procession  on 
the  first  day,  sixty  had  been  laid  in  their  family  vaults.  Still 
more  affecting  must  have  been  the  sight  of  the  managers’ 
box.  What  had  become  of  that  fair  fellowship,  so  closely 
bound  together  by  public  and  private  ties,  so  resplendent 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


650 

with  every  talent  and  accomplishment  ? It  had  been 
scattered  by  calamities  more  bitter  than  the  bitten  ^ess  of 
death.  The  great  chiefs  were  still  living,  and  still  in  the 
full  vigor  of  their  genius.  But  their  friendship  was  at  an 
end.  It  had  been  violently  and  publicly  dissolved,  with 
tears  and  stormy  reproaches.  If  those  men,  once  so  dear  to 
each  other,  were  now  compelled  to  meet  for  the  purpose  of 
managing  the  impeachment,  they  met  as  strangers  whom 
public  business  had  brought  together,  and  behaved  to  each 
other  with  cold  and  distant  civility.  Burke  had  in  his  vor- 
tex whirled  away  Windham.  Fox  had  been  followed  by 
Sheridan  and  Grey. 

Only  twenty-nine  Peers  voted.  Of  these  only  six  found 
Hastings  guilty  on  the  charges  relating  to  Cheyte  Sing  and 
to  the  Begums.  On  other  charges,  the  majority  in  his 
favor  was  still  greater.  On  some  he  was  unanimously  ab- 
solved. He  was  then  called  to  the  bar,  was  informed  from 
the  woolsack  that  the  Lords  had  acquitted  him,  and  was 
solemnly  discharged.  He  bowed  respectfully  and  retired. 

We  have  said  that  the  decision  had  been  fully  expected. 
It  was  also  generally  approved.  At  the  commencement  of 
the  trial  there  had  been  a strong  and  indeed  unreasonable 
feeling  against  Hastings.  At  the  close  of  the  trial  there  was 
a feeling  equally  strong  and  equally  unreasonable  in  his 
favor.  One  cause  of  the  change  was,  no  doubt,  what  is 
commonly  called  the  fickleness  of  the  multitude,  but  what 
seems  to  us  to  be  merely  the  general  law  of  human  nature. 
Both  in  individuals  and  in  masses  violent  excitement  is 
always  followed  by  remission,  and  often  by  reaction.  We 
are  all  inclined  to  depreciate  whatever  we  have  overpraised, 
and,  on  the  other  hand,  to  show  undue  indulgence  where  we 
have  shown  undue  rigor.  It  was  thus  in  the  case  of  Has- 
tings. The  length  of  his  trial,  moreover,  made  him  an  ob- 
ject of  compassion.  It  was  thought,  and  not  without  reason, 
that,  even  if  he  was  guilty,  he  was  still  an  ill-used  man,  and 
that  an  impeachment  of  eight  years  was  more  than  a suffi- 
cient punishment.  It  was  also  felt  that,  though,  in  the 
ordinary  course  of  criminal  law,  a defendant  is  not  allowed 
to  set  off  his  good  actions  against  his  crimes,  a great  politi- 
cal cause  should  be  tried  on  different  principles,  and  that  a 
man  who  had  governed  an  empire  during  thirteen  years 
might  have  done  some  very  reprehensible  things,  and  yet 
might  be  on  the  whole  deserving  of  rewards  and  honors 
rather  than  of  fino  and  imprisonment.  The  pressman  instru- 


fc  itfif latrifinM  n ilttaailfiiiim 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


651 


snent  neglected  by  the  prosecutors,  was  used  by  Hastings 
and  his  friends  with  great  effect.  Every  ship,  too,  that  ar 
rived  from  Madras  or  Bengal,  brought  a cuddy  full  of  his 
admirers.  Every  gentleman  from  India  spoke  of  the  late 
Governor-General  as  having  deserved  better,  and  having 
been  treated  worse,  than  any  man  living.  The  effect  of  this 
testimony  unanimously  given  by  all  persons  who  knew  the 
East  was  naturally  very  great.  Retired  members  of  the 
Indian  services,  civil  and  military,  were  settled  in  all  cor- 
ners of  the  kingdom.  Each  of  them  was,  of  course,  in  liis 
own  little  circle,  regarded  as  an  oracle  on  an  Indian  ques- 
tion, and  they  were,  with  scarcely  one  exception,  the  zealous 
advocates  of  Hastings.  It  is  to  be  added,  that  the  numerous 
addresses  to  the  late  Governor-General,  which  his  friends  in 
Bengal  obtained  from  the  natives  and  transmitted  to  Eng- 
land, made  a considerable  impression.  To  these  addresses 
we  attach  little  or  no  importance.  That  Hastings  was  be- 
loved by  the  people  whom  he  governed  is  true ; but  the 
eulogies  of  pundits,  zemindars,  Mahommedan  doctors,  do 
not  prove  it  to  be  true.  For  an  English  collector  or  judge 
would  have  found  it  easy  to  induce  any  native  who  could 
write  to  sign  a panegyric  on  the  most  odious  ruler  that  ever 
was  in  India.  It  was  said  that  at  Benares,  the  very  place 
at  which  the  acts  set  forth  in  the  first  article  of  impeach- 
ment had  been  committed,  the  natives  had  erected  a temple 
to  Hastings,  and  this  story  excited  a strong  sensation  in 
England.  Burke’s  observations  on  the  apotheosis  were  ad 
mirable.  He  saw  no  reason  for  astonishment,  he  said,  in  the 
incident  which  had  been  represented  as  so  striking.  He 
knew  something  of  the  mythology  of  the  Brahmins.  He 
knew  that  as  they  worshipped  some  gods  from  love,  so  they 
worshipped  others  from  fear.  He  knew  that  they  erected 
shrines,  not  only  to  the  benignant  deities  of  light  and  plenty, 
but  also  to  the  fends  who  preside  over  small-pox  and  mur- 
der ; nor  did  he  at  al]  dispute  the  claim  of  Mr.  Hastings  to 
be  admitted  into  such  a Pantheon.  This  reply  has  always 
struck  us  as  one  of  the  finest  that  was  ever  made  in  Parlia- 
ment. It  is  a grave  and  forcible  argument,  decorated  by 
the  most  brilliant  wit  and  fancy. 

Hastings  was,  however,  safe.  But,  in  everything  except 
character,  he  would  have  been  far  better  off  if,  when  first 
impeached,  he  had  at  once  pleaded  guilty,  and  paid  a fine  of 
fifty  thousand  pounds.  He  was  a ruined  man.  The  legal 
expenses  of  his  defence  had  been  enormous,  The  expenses 


652  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

which  did  not  appear  in  his  attorney’s  bill  were  perhaps 
larger  still.  Great  sums  had  been  paid  to  Major  Scott. 
Great  sums  had  been  laid  out  in  bribing  newspapers,  re- 
warding pamphleteers,  and  circulating  tracts.  Burke,  so 
eany  as  1790,  declared  in  the  House  of  Commons  that  twenty 
thousand  pounds  had  been  employed  in  corrupting  the  press. 
It  is  certain  that  no  controversial  weapon,  from  the  gravest 
reasoning  to  the  coarsest  ribaldry,  was  left  unemployed. 
Logan  defended  the  accused  Governor  with  great  ability  in 
prose.  For  the  lovers  of  verse,  the  speeches  of  the  managers 
were  burlesqued  in  Simpkin’s  letters.  It  is,  we  are  afraid, 
indisputable  that  Hastings  stooped  so  low  as  to  court  the 
aid  of  that  malignant  and  filthy  baboon  John  Williams,  who 
called  himself  Anthony  Pasquin.  It  was  necessary  to  sub- 
sidize such  aides  largely.  The  private  hoards  of  Mrs. 
Hastings  had  disappeared.  It  is  said  that  the  banker  to 
whom  they  had  been  intrusted  had  failed.  Still  if  Hastings 
had  practised  strict  economy,  he  would,  after  all  his  losses, 
have  had  a moderate  competence ; but  in  the  management 
of  his  private  affairs  he  was  imprudent.  The  dearest  wish 
of  his  heart  had  always  been  to  regain  Daylesford.  At 
length,  in  the  very  year  in  which  his  trial  commenced,  the 
wish  wTas  accomplished ; and  the  domain,  alienated  more 
than  seventy  years  before,  returned  to  the  descendant  of  its 
old  lords.  But  the  manor  house  was  a ruin  ; and  the 
grounds  round  it  had,  during  many  years,  been  utterly 
neglected.  Hastings  proceeded  to  build,  to  plant,  to  form 
a sheet  of  water,  to  excavate  a grotto ; and,  before  he  was 
dismissed  from  the  bar  of  the  House  of  Lords,  he  had  ex- 
pended more  than  forty  thousand  pounds  in  adorning  his 
seat. 

The  general  feeling  both  of  the  Directors  and  of  the  pro- 
prietors of  the  East  India  Company  was  that  he  had  great 
claims  on  them,  that  his  services  to  them  had  been  eminent, 
and  that  his  misfortunes  had  been  the  effect  of  his  zeal  for 
their  interest.  His  friends  in  Leadenhall  Street  proposed  to 
reimburse  him  the  costs  of  his  trial,  and  to  settle  on  him  an 
annuity  of  five  thousand  pounds  a year.  But  the  consent  of 
the  Board  of  Control  was  necessary ; and  at  the  head  of  the 
Board  of  Control  was  Mr.  Dundas,  who  had  himself  been  a 
party  to  the  impeachment,  who  had,  on  that  account,  been 
reviled  with  great  bitterness  by  the  adherents  of  Hastings, 
and  who,  therefore,  was  not  in*a  very  complying  mood.  He 
refused  to  consent  to  what  the  Directors  suggested.  The 


WAiJRfitf  iXAStlKOS. 


65S 


Directors  remonstrated.  A long  controversy  followed.  Has- 
tings, in  the  mean  time,  was  reduced  to  such  distress,  that  he 
could  hardly  pay  his  weekly  bills.  At  length  a compromise 
was  made.  An  annuity  for  life  of  four  thousand  pounds 
was  settled  on  Hastings  ; and  in  order  to  enable  him  to  meet 
pressing  demands,  he  was  to  receive  ten  years’  annuity  in 
advance.  The  Company  was  also  permitted  to  lend  him 
fifty  thousand  pounds,  to  be  repaid  by  instalments  without 
interest.  The  relief,  though  given  in  the  most  absurd  man- 
ner, was  sufficient  to  enable  the  retired  Governor  to  live  in 
comfort,  and  even  in  luxury,  if  he  had  been  a skilful  man- 
ager. But  he  was  careless  and  profuse,  and  was  more  than 
once  under  the  necessity  of  applying  to  the  Company  for 
assistance,  which  was  liberally  given. 

He  had  security  and  affluence,  but  not  the  power  and 
dignity  which,  when  he  landed  from  India,  he  had  reason  to 
expect.  He  had  then  looked  forward  to  a coronet,  a red 
riband,  a seat  at  the  Council  Board,  an  office  at  Whitehall. 
He  was  then  only  fifty-two,  and  might  hope  for  many  years 
of  bodily  and  mental  vigor.  The  case  was  widely  different 
when  he  left  the  bar  of  the  Lords.  He  was  now  too  old  a 
man  to  turn  his  mind  to  a new  class  of  studies  and  duties. 
He  had  no  chance  of  receiving  any  mark  of  royal  favor 
while  Mr.  Pitt  remained  in  power;  and,  when  Mr.  Pitt  re- 
tired, Hastings  was  approaching  his  seventieth  year. 

Once,  and  only  once,  after  his  acquittal,  he  interfered  in 
politics ; and  that  interference  was  not  much  to  his  honor. 
In  1804  he  exerted  himself  strenuously  to  prevent  Mr.  Ad- 
dington, against  whom  Fox  and  Pitt  had  combined,  from 
resigning  the  Treasury.  It  is  difficult  to  believe  that  a man 
so  able  and  energetic  as  Hastings  can  have  thought  that,  when 
Bonaparte  was  at  Boulogne  with  a great  army,  the  defence 
of  our  island  could  safely  be  intrusted  to  a ministry  which 
did  not  contain  a single  person  whom  flattery  could  describe 
as  a great  statesman.  It  is  also  certain  that,  on  the  im- 
portant question  which  had  raised  Mr.  Addington  to  power, 
and  on  which  he  differed  from  both  Fox  and  Pitt,  Hastings, 
as  might  have  been  expected,  agreed  with  Fox  and  Pitt,  and 
was  decidedly  opposed  to  Addington.  Religious  intolerance 
has  never  been  the  vice  of  the  Indian  service,  and  certainly 
was  not  the  vice  of  Hastings.  But  Mr.  Addington  had 
treated  him  with  marked  favor.  Fox  had  been  a principal 
manager  of  the  impeachment.  To  Pitt  it  was  owing  that 
there  had  been  an  impeachment ; and  Hastings,  we  fear,  waa 


654 


MACAtTLAY*S  MlSCELLAtfEOtTS  WITITIKGS. 


on  this  occasion  guided  by  personal  considerations,  rathef 
than  by  a regard  to  the  public  interest. 

The  last  twenty-four  years  of  his  life  were  chiefly  passed 
at  Daylesford.  He  amused  himself  with  embellishing  his 
grounds,  riding  flue  Arab  horses,  fattening  prize  cattle,  and 
trying  to  rear  Indian  animals  and  vegetables  in  England. 
He  sent  for  seeds  of  a very  fine  custard  apple,  from  the 
garden  of  what  had  once  been  his  own  villa,  among  the 
green  hedgerows  of  Allipore.  He  tried  also  to  neutralize  in 
Worcestershire  the  delicious  leecliee,  almost  the  only  fruit 
of  Bengal  which  deserves  to  be  regretted  even  amidst  the 
plenty  of  Covent  Garden.  The  Mogul  emperors,  in  the 
time  of  their  greatness,  had  in  vain  attempted  to  introduce 
into  Hindostan  the  goat  of  the  table-land  of  Thibet,  whose 
down  supplies  the  looms  of  Cashmere  with  the  materials  of 
the  finest  shawls.  Hastings  tried,  with  no  better  fortune,  to 
rear  a breed  at  Daylesford ; nor  does  he  seem  to  have  suc- 
ceeded better  with  the  cattle  of  Bootan,  whose  tails  are  in 
nigh  esteem  as  the  best  fans  for  brushing  away  the  inus- 
quitoes. 

Literature  divided  his  attention  with  his  conservatories 
and  his  menagerie.  He  had  always  loved  books,  and  they 
were  now  necessary  to  him.  Though  not  a poet,  in  any 
high  sense  of  the  word,  he  wrote  neat  and  polished  lines 
with  great  facility,  and  was  fond  of  exercising  this  talent. 
Indeed,  if  we  must  speak  out,  he  seems  to  have  been  more 
of  a Trissotin  than  was  to  be  expected  from  the  powers  of 
his  mind,  and  from  the  great  part  which  he  had  played  in 
life.  We  are  assured  in  these  Memoirs  that  the  first  thing 
which  he  did  in  the  morning  was  to  write  a copy  of  verses. 
When  the  family  and  guests  assembled,  the  poem  made  its 
^pearance  as  regularly  as  the  eggs  and  rolls ; and  Mr. 
Gleig  requires  us  to  believe  that,  if  from  any  accident  Has- 
tings came  to  the  breakfast-table  without  one  of  his  charm- 
’ng  performances  in  his  hand,  the  omission  was  felt  by  all 
is  a grievous  disappointment.  Tastes  differ  widely.  For 
ourselves,  we  must  say  that,  however  good  the  breakfasts  at 
Daylesford  may  have  been, — and  we  are  assured  that  the 
tea  was  of  the  most  aromatic  flavor,  and  that  neither 
tongue  nor  venison-pasty  was  wanting, — we  should  have 
thought  the  reckoning  high  if  we  had  been  forced  to  earn 
our  repast  by  listening  every  day  to  a new  madrigal  or  son- 
net composed  by  our  host.  We  are  glad,  however,  that  Mr. 
Gleig  has  preserved  this  little  feature  of  character,  though 


WARREN  HASTINGS. 


655 


we  think  it  by  no  means  a beauty.  It  is  good  to  be  often 
reminded  of  the  inconsistency  of  human  nature,  and  to  learn 
to  look  without  wonder  or  disgust  on  the  weaknesses  which 
are  found  in  the  strongest  minds.  Dionysius  in  old  times, 
Frederic  in  the  last  century,  with  capacity  and  vigor  equal 
to  the  conduct  of  the  greatest  affairs,  united  all  the  little 
vanities  and  affectations  of  provincial  blue-stockings.  These 
great  examples  may  console  the  admirers  of  Hastings  for 
the  affliction  of  seeing  him  reduced  to  the  level  of  the  Hay- 
leys  and  Sewards. 

When  Hastings  had  passed  many  years  in  retirement, 
and  had  long  outlived  the  common  age  of  men,  he  again  be- 
came for  a short  time  an  object  of  general  attention.  In 
1813  the  charter  of  the  East  India  Company  was  renewed ; 
and  much  discussion  about  Indian  affairs  took  place  in  Par- 
liament. It  was  determined  to  examine  witnesses  at  the 
bar  of  the  Commons  ; and  Hastings  was  ordered  to  attend. 
He  had  appeared  at  that  bar  once  before.  It  was  when  he 
read  his  answer  to  charges  which  Burke  had  laid  on  the 
table.  Since  that  time  twenty-seven  years  had  elapsed ; 
public  feeling  had  undergone  a complete  change  ; the  nation 
had  now  forgotten  his  faults,  and  remembered  only  his  ser- 
vices. The  reappearance,  too,  of  a man  who  had  been 
among  the  most  distinguished  of  a generation  that  had 
passed  away,  and  now  belonged  to  history,  and  who  seemed 
to  have  risen  from  the  dead,  could  not  put  produce  a solemn 
and  pathetic  effect.  The  Commons  received  him  with  ac- 
clamations, ordered  a chair  to  be  set  for  him,  and,  when  he 
retired,  rose  and  uncovered.  There  were,  indeed,  a few 
who  did  not  sympathize  with  the  general  feeling.  One  or 
two  of  the  managers  of  the  impeachment  were  present. 
They  sate  in  the  same  seats  which  they  had  occupied  when 
they  had  been  thanked  for  the  services  which  they  had 
rendered  in  Westminster  Hall : for,  by  the  courtesy  of  the 
House,  a member  who  has  been  thanked  in  his  place  is  con- 
sidered as  having  a right  always  to  occupy  that  place.  These 
gentlemen  were  not  disposed  to  admit  that  they  had 
employed  several  of  the  best  years  of  their  lives  in  persecu-. 
ting  an  innocent  man.  They  accordingly  kept  their  seats, 
and  pulled  their  hats  over  their  brows ; but  the  exceptions 
only  made  the  prevailing  enthusiasm  more  remarkable. 
The  Lords  received  the  old  man  with  similar  tokens  of  re- 
spect. The  University  of  Oxford  conferred  on  him  the 
degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws  $ and,  in  the  Bheldonian  Theatre, 


656  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

the  undergraduates  welcomed  him  with  tumultuous  cheer* 
ing. 

These  marks  of  public  esteem  were  soon  followed  by 
marks  of  royal  favor.  Hastings  was  sworn  of  the  Privy 
Council,  and  was  admitted  to  a long  private  audience  of  the 
Prince  Regent,  who  treated  him  very  graciously.  When 
the  Emperor  of  Russia  and  the  King  of  Prussia  visited  Eng- 
land, Hastings  appeared  in  their  train  both  at  Oxford  and  in 
the  Guildhall  of  London,  and,  though  surrounded  by  a 
crowd  of  princes  and  great  warriors,  was  everywhere  re- 
ceived with  marks  of  respect  and  admiration.  He  was  pre- 
sented by  the  Prince  Regent  both  to  Alexander  and  to 
Frederic  William ; and  his  Royal  Highness  w^ent  so  far  as 
to  declare  in  public  that  honors  far  higher  than  a seat  in  the 
Privy  Council  were  due,  and  would  soon  be  paid,  to  the 
man  who  had  saved  the  British  dominions  in  Asia.  Has- 
tings now  confidently  expected  a peerage;  but,  from  some 
unexplained  cause,  he  was  again  disappointed. 

He  lived  about  four  years  longer,  in  the  enjoyment  of 
good  spirits,  of  faculties  not  impaired  to  any  painful  or  de- 
grading extent,  and  of  health  such  as  is  rarely  enjoyed  by 
those  who  attain  such  an  age.  At  length,  on  the  twenty- 
second  of  August,  1818,  in  the  eighty-sixth  year  of  his  age, 
he  met  death  with  the  same  tranquil  and  decorous  fortitude 
which  he  had  opposed  to  all  the  trials  of  his  various  and 
eventful  life. 

With  alb  his  faults, — and  they  were  neither  few  noi 
small, — only  one  cemetery  was  worthy  to  contain  his  re- 
mains. In  that  temple  of  silence  and  reconciliation  where 
the  enmities  of  twenty  generations  lie  buried,  in  the  Great 
Abbey  which  has  during  many  ages  afforded  a quiet  rest- 
ing-place to  those  whose  minds  and  bodies  have  been  shat- 
tered by  the  contentions  of  the  Great  Hall,  the  dust  of  the 
illustrious  accused  should  have  mingled  with  the  dust  of  the 
illustrious  accusers.  This  was  not  to  be.  Yet  the  place  of 
interment  was  not  ill-chosen.  Behind  the  chancel  of  the 
parish  church  of  Daylesford,  in  earth  which  already  held  the 
bones  of  many  chiefs  of  the  house  of  Hastings,  was  laid  the 
coffin  of  the  greatest  man  who  has  ever  borne  that  ancient 
and  widely  extended  name.  On  that  very  spot,  probably, 
fourscore  years  before,  the  little  Warren,  meanly  clad  and 
scantily  fed,  had  played  with  the  children  of  ploughmen. 
Even  then  his  young  mind  had  revolved  plans  which  might 
be  called  romantic.  Yet,  however  romantic,  it  is  not  likely 


FREDERIC  THE  GREAT. 


G07 


that  they  had  been  so  strange  as  the  truth.  Not  only  had 
the  poor  orphan  retrieved  the  fallen  fortunes  of  his  line. 
Not  only  had  he  repurchased  the  old  lands,  and  rebuilt  the 
old  dwelling.  lie  had  preserved  and  extended  an  empire. 
He  had  founded  a polity.  He  had  administered  govern- 
ment and  war  with  more  than  the  capacity  of  Richelieu. 
He  had  patronized  learning  with  the  judicious  liberality  of 
Cosmo.  lie  had  been  attacked  by  the  most  formidable 
combination  of  enemies  that  ever  sought  the  destruction  of 
a single  victim;  and  over  that  combination,  after  a struggle 
of  ten  years,  he  had  triumphed.  He  had  at  length  gono 
down  to  his  grave  in  the  fulness  of  age,  in  peace,  after  so 
many  troubles,  in  honor,  after  so  much  obloquy. 

Those  who  look  on  his  character  Avithout  fa\ror  or 
malevolence  will  pronounce  that,  in  the  two  great  elements 
of  all  social  Arirtue,  in  respect  for  the  rights  of  others,  and  in 
sympathy  for  the  sufferings  of  others,  he  was  deficient.  His 
principles  were  somewhat  lax.  His  heart  was  somewhat 
hard.  But  though  we  cannot  with  truth  describe  him  either 
as  a righteous  or  as  a merciful  ruler,  we  cannot  regard 
Avithout  admiration  the  amplitude  and  fertility  of  his  in- 
tellect, his  rare  talents  for  command,  for  administration,  and 
for  controversy,  his  dauntless  courage,  his  honorable 
poverty,  his  feiwent  zeal  for  the  interests  of  the  state,  his 
noble  equanimity,  tried  by  both  extremes  of  fortune,  and 
never  disturbed  by  either. 


FREDERIC  THE  GREAT.* 

( Edinburgh  Review,  April , 1842.) 

This  work,  which  has  the  high  honor  of  being  introduced 
to  the  world  by  the  author  of  Lochiel  and  Hohenlinden,  is 
not  wholly  unworthy  of  so  dintinguished  a chaperon.  It 
professes,  indeed,  to  be  no  more  than  a compilation ; but  it 
is  an  exceedingly  amusing  compilation,  and  avc  shall  be  glad 
to  have  more  of  it.  The  narrative  comes  down  at  present 
only  to  the  commencement  of  the  SeAren  Years’  War,  and 

* Frederic  the  Great  and  kin  Times.  Edited,  with  an  Introduction,  t>3 
^HOHA8  Campbei.!.,  ebq.  2 vols.  8vo,  London  ; 1812. 

Vol.  IJ. — 42 


658  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

therefore  does  not  comprise  the  most  interesting  portion  of 
Frederic’s  reign. 

It  may  not  be  unacceptable  to  our  readers  that  we  should 
take  this  opportunity  of  presenting  them  with  a slight  sketch 
of  the  life  of  the  greatest  king  that  has,  in  modern  times 
succeeded  by  right  of  birth  to  a throne.  It  may,  we  fear, 
oe  impossible  to  compress  so  long  and  eventful  a story  within 
the  limits  which  we  must  prescribe  to  ourselves.  Should 
we  be  compelled  to  break  off,  we  may  perhaps,  when  the 
continuation  of  this  work  appears,  return  to  the  subject. 

The  Prussian  monarchy,  the  youngest  of  the  great  Euro- 
pean states,  but  in  population  and  revenue  the  fifth  among 
them,  and  in  art,  science,  and  civilization  entitled  to  the 
third,  if  not  to  the  second  jilace,  sprang  from  a humble  ori- 
gin. About  the  beginning  of  the  fifteenth  century,  the  mar- 
quisate  of  Brandenburg  was  bestowed  by  the  Emperor 
Sigismund  on  the  noble  family  of  Hohenzollern.  In  the 
sixteenth  century  that  family  embraced  the  Lutheran  doc- 
trines. It  obtained  from  the  King  of  Poland,  early  in  the 
seventeenth  century,  the  investiture  of  the  duchy  of  Prussia. 
Even  after  this  accession  of  territory,  the  chiefs  of  the  house 
of  Hohenzollern  hardly  ranked  with  the  Electors  of  Saxony 
and  Bavaria.  The  soil  of  Brandenburg  was  for  the  most 
part  sterile.  Even  round  Berlin,  the  capital  of  the  province, 
and  round  Potsdam,  the  favorite  residence  of  the  Margraves, 
the  country  was  a desert.  In  some  places,  the  deep  sand 
could  with  difficulty  be  forced  by  assiduous  tillage  to  yield 
thin  crops  of  rye  and  oats.  In  other  places,  the  ancient 
forests,  from  which  the  conquerors  of  the  Roman  empire  had 
descended  on  the  Danube,  remained  untouched  by  the  hand 
of  man.  Where  the  soil  was  rich  it  was  generally  marshy, 
and  its  insalubrity  repelled  the  cultivators  whom  its  fer- 
tility attracted.  Frederic  William,  called  the  Great  Elector, 
was  the  prince  to  whose  policy  his  successors  have  agreed 
to  ascribe  their  greatness.  lie  acquired  by  the  peace  of 
Westphalia  several  valuable  possessions,  and  among  them 
the  rich  city  and  district  of  Magdeburg ; and  he  left  to  his 
son  Frederic  a principality  as  considerable  as  any  which 
was  not  called  a kingdom. 

Frederic  aspired  to  the  style  of  royalty.  Ostentatious 
and  profuse,  negligent  of  his  true  interests  and  of  his  high 
duties,  insatiably  eager  for  frivolous  distinctions,  he  added 
nothing  to  the  real  weight  of  the  state  which  he  governed : 
perhaps  he  transmitted  his  inheritance  to  his  children  im* 


imEMKIO  ME  GltliJAT. 


659 


paired  rather  than  augmented  in  value  ; but  he  succeeded  in 
gaining  the  great  object  of  his  life,  the  title  of  King.  In 
the  year  1700  he  assumed  this  new  dignity.  He  had  on  that 
occasion  to  undergo  all  the  mortifications  which  fall  to  the 
lot  of  ambitious  upstarts.  Compared  with  the  other  crowned 
heads  of  Europe,  he  made  a figure  resembling  that  which  a 
Nabob  or  a Commissary,  who  had  bought  a title,  would 
make  in  the  company  of  Peers  whose  ancestors  had  been  at- 
tainted for  treason  against  the  Plantagenets.  The  envy  of 
the  class  which  Frederic  quitted,  and  the  civil  scorn  of  the 
class  into  which  he  intruded  himself,  were  marked  in  very 
significant^  ways.  The  Electors  of  Saxony  .at  first  refused 
to  acknowledge  the  new  Majesty.  Lewis  the  Fourteenth 
looked  down  on  his  brother  King  with  an  air  notunlike  that 
with  which  the  Count  in  Moliere’s  play  regards  Monsieur 
Jourdain,  just  fresh  from  the  mummery  of  being  made  a 
gentleman.  Austria  exacted  large  sacrifices  in  return  for 
her  recognition,  and  at  last  gave  it  ungraciously. 

Frederic  was  succeeded  by  his  son,  Frederic  William,  a 
prince  who  must  be  allowed  to  have  possessed  some  talents 
for  administration,  but  whose  character  was  disfigured  by 
odious  vices,  and  whose  eccentricities  were  such  as  had 
never  before  been  seen  out  of  a mad-house.  He  was  exact  and 
diligent  in  the  transacting  of  business  ; and  he  was  the  first 
who  formed  the  design  of  obtaining  for  Prussia  a place 
among  the  European  powers,  altogether  out  of  proportion 
to  her  extent  and  population,  by  means  of  a strong  military 
organization.  Strict  economy  enabled  him  to  keep  up  a 
peace  establishment  of  sixty  thousand  troops.  These  troops 
were  disciplined  in  such  a manner,  that  placed  beside  them, 
the  household  regiments  of  Versailles  and  St.  James’s  would 
have  appeared  an  awkward  squad.  The  master  of  such  a 
force  could  not  but  be  regarded  by  all  his  neighbors  as  a 
formidable  enemy  and  a valuable  ally. 

But  the  mind  of  Frederic  William  was  so  ill  regulated., 
that  all  his  inclinations  became  passions,  and  all  his  passions 
partook  of  the  character  of  moral  and  intellectual  disease. 
His  parsimony  degenerated  into  sordid  avarice.  His  taste 
for  military  pomp  and  order  became  a mania,  like  that  of  a 
Dutch  burgomaster  for  tulips,  or  that  of  a member  of  the 
Roxburgh e Club  for  Caxtons.  While  the  envoys  of  the 
Court  of  Berlin  were  in  a state  of  such  squalid  poverty  as 
moved  the  laughter  of  foreign  capitals,  while  the  food  placed 
before  the  princes  and  princesses  of  the  blood-royal  of  Prussia 


660  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

was  too  scanty  to  appease  hunger,  and  so  bad  that  even  huib 
ger  loathed  it,  no  price  was  thought  too  extravagant  for  tall 
recruits.  The  ambition  of  the  King  was  to  form  a brigade  of 
giants,  and  every  country  was  ransacked  by  his  agents  for  men 
above  the  ordinary  stature.  These  researches  were  not  con- 
fined to  Europe.  No  head  that  towered  above  the  crowd 
in  the  bazaars  of  Aleppo,  of  Cairo,  or  of  Surat,  could  escape 
the  crimps  of  Frederic  William.  One  Irishman  more  than 
seven  feet  high,  who  was  picked  up  in  London  by  the  Prus- 
sian ambassador,  received  a bounty  of  near  thirteen  hundred 
pounds  sterling,  very  much  more  than  the  ambassador’s 
salary.  This  extravagance  was  the  more  absurd,  because 
a stout  youth  of  five  feet  eight,  who  might  have  been  pro- 
cured for  a few  dollars,  would  in  all  probability  have  been 
a much  more  valuable  soldier.  But  to  Frederic  William, 
this  huge  Irishman  was  what  a brass  Otho,  or  a Vinegar 
Bible,  is  to  a collector  of  a different  kind. 

It  is  remarkable,  that  though  the  main  end  of  Frederic 
William’s  administration  was  to  have  a great  military  force, 
though  his  reign  forms  an  important  epoch  in  the  history  of 
military  discipline,  and  though  his  dominant  passion  was 
the  love  of  military  display,  he  was  yet  one  of  the  most 
pacific  of  princes.  We  are  afraid  that  his  aversion  to  war 
was  not  the  effect  of  humanity,  but  was  merely  one  of  his 
thousand  whims.  His  feeling  about  his  troops  seems  to 
have  resembled  a miser’s  feeling  about  his  money.  He 
loved  to  collect  them,  to  count  them,  to  see  them  increase ; 
but  he  could  not  find  it  m his  heart  to  break  in  upon  the 
precious  hoard.  He  looked  forward  to  some  future  time 
when  his  Patagonian  battalions  were  to  drive  hostile  infan- 
try before  them  like  sheep  ; but  this  future  time  was  always 
receding ; and  it  is  probable  that,  if  his  life  had  been  pro- 
longed thirty  years,  his  superb  army  would  never  have  seen 
any  harder  service  than  a sham  fight  in  the  fields  near  Ber- 
lin. But  the  great  military  means  which  he  had  collected 
were  destined  to  be  employed  by  a spirit  far  more  daring 
and  inventive  than  his  own. 

Frederic,  surnamed  the  Great,  son  of  Frederic  William, 
was  born  in  January,  1712.  It  may  safely  be  pronounced 
that  he  had  received  from  nature  a strong  and  sharp  under- 
standing, and  a rare  firmness  of  temper  and  intensity  of  will. 
As  to  the  other  parts  of  his  character,  it  is  difficulty  to  say 
whether  they  are  to  be  ascribed  to  nature,  or  to  the  strange 
training  which  he  underwent.  The  history  of  his  boyhood 


Frederic  the  great. 


661 


Js  painfully  interesting.  Oliver  Twist  in  the  parish  work- 
House,  Smike  at  Dotheboy’s  Hall,  were  petted  children  when 
compared  with  this  wretched  heir  apparent  of  a crown. 
The  nature  of  Frederic  William  was  hard  and  bad,  and  the 
habit  of  exercising  arbitrary  power  had  made  him  fright- 
fully savage.  His  rage  constantly  vented  itself  to  right  and 
left  in  curses  and  blows.  When  his  Majesty  took  a walk, 
every  human  being  fled  before  him,  as  if  a tiger  had  broken 
loose  from  a menagerie.  If  he  met  a lady  in  the  street,  he 
gave  her  a kick,  and  told  her  to  go  home  and  mind  her 
brats.  If  he  saw  a clergyman  staring  at  the  soldiers,  he 
admonished  the  reverend  gentleman  to  betake  himself  to 
study  and  prayer,  and  enforced  this  pious  advice  by  a sound 
caning,  administered  on  the  spot.  But  it  was  in  his  own 
house  that  he  was  most  unreasonable  and  ferocious.  His 
palace  was  hell,  and  he  the  most  execrable  of  fiends,  a cross 
between  Moloch  and  Puck.  His  son  Frederic  and  his  daugh- 
ter Wilhelmina,  afterwards  Margravine  of  Bareuth,  were  in 
an  especial  manner  objects  of  his  aversion.  His  own  mind 
was  uncultivated.  He  desj3ised  literature.  He  hated  in*, 
fidels,  papists,  and  metaphysicians,  and  did  not  very  well 
understand  m what  they  differed  from  each  other.  The 
business  of  life,  according  to  him,  was  to  drill  and  to  be  drilled. 
The  recreations  suited  to  a prince,  were  to  sit  in  a cloud  of 
tobacco  smoke,  to  sip  Swedish  beer  between  the  puffs  of  the 
pipe,  to  play  backgammon  for  three  halfpence  a rubber,  to 
kill  wild  hogs,  and  to  shoot  partridges  by  the  thousand. 
The  Prince  Royal  showed  little  inclination  either  for  the 
serious  employments  or  for  the  amusements  of  Lis  father. 
He  shirked  the  duties  of  the  parade  ; he  detested  the  fume 
of  tobacco  : he  had  no  taste  either  for  backgammon  or  for 
field  sports.  He  had  an  exquisite  ear  and  performed  skil- 
fully on  the  flute.  His  earliest  instructors  had  been  French 
refugees,  and  they  had  awakened  in  him  a strong  passion 
for  French  literature  and  French  society.  Frederic  William 
regarded  these  tastes  as  effeminate  and  contemptible,  and 
by  abuse  and  persecution,  made  them  still  stronger.  Things 
became  worse  when  the  Prince  Royal  attained  that  time  of 
life  at  which  the  great  revolution  in  the  human  mind  and 
body  takes  place.  He  was  guilty  of  some  youthful  indis- 
cretions, which  no  good  and  wise  parent  would  regard  with 
reverity.  At  a later  period  he  was  accused,  truly  or  falsely, 
of  vices  from  which  History  averts  her  eyes,  and  which  even 
Satire  blushes  to  name,  vices  such  that,  to  borrow  the  ener* 


662 


MACAULAY^  MISCALL AtfEOrS  WRITINGS, 


getic  language  of  Lord  Keeper  Coventry,  “ the  depraved 
nature  of  man,  which  of  itself  carrieth  man  to  all  other  sin, 
abhorreth  them.”  But  the  offences  of  his  youth  were  not; 
characterized  by  any  degree  of  turpitude.  They  excited, 
however,  transports  of  rage  in  the  King,  who  hated  all  faults 
except  those  to  which  he  was  himself  inclined,  and  who  con- 
ceived that  he  made  ample  atonement  to  Heaven  for  his 
brutality,  by  holding  the  softer  passions  in  detestation.  The 
Prince  Royal,  too,  was  not  one  of  those  who  are  content  to 
take  their  religion  on  trust.  He  asked  puzzling  questions, 
and  brought  forward  arguments  which  seemed  to  savor  of 
something  different  from  pure  Lutheranism.  The  King 
suspected  that  his  son  was  inclined  to  be  a heretic  of  some 
sort  or  other,  whether  Calvinist  or  Atheist  his  Majesty  did 
not  very  well  know.  The  ordinary  malignity  of  Frederic 
William  was  bad  enough.  He  now  thought  malignity  a 
part  of  his  duty  as  a Christian  man,  and  all  the  conscience 
that  he  had  stimulated  his  hatred.  The  flute  was  broken  : 
the  French  books  were  sent  out  of  the  palace:  the  Prince 
was  kicked  and  cudgelled,  and  pulled  by  the  hair.  At 
dinner  the  plates  were  hurled  at  his  head : sometimes  he 
was  restricted  to  bread  and  water  : sometimes  he  was  forced 
to  swallow  food  so  nauseous  that  he  could  not  keep  it  on 
his  stomach.  Once  his  father  knocked  him  down,  dragged 
him  along  the  floor  to  a window,  and  wa&  with  difficulty 
prevented  from  strangling  him  with  the  cord  of  the  curtain. 
The  Queen,  for  the  crime  of  not  wishing  to  see  her  son 
murdered,  was  subjected  to  the  grossest  indignities.  The 
Princess  Wilhelmina,  who  took  her  brother’s  part,  was  treated 
almost  as  ill  as  Mrs.  Brownrigg’s  apprentices.  Driven  to 
despair,  the  unhappy  youth  tried  to  run  away.  Then  the 
fury  of  the  old  tyrant  rose  to  madness.  The  prince  was  an 
officer  in  the  army  : his  flight  was  therefore  desertion ; and, 
in  the  moral  code  of  Frederic  William,  desertion  was  the 
highest  of  all  crimes.  “ Desertion,”  says  this  royal  theolo- 
gian, in  one  of  his  half  crazy  letters,  “ is  from  hell.  It  is  a 
work  of  the  children  of  the  devil.  No  child  of  God  could 
possibly  be  guilty  of  it.”  An  accomplice  of  the  Prince,  in 
spite  of  the  recommendation  of  a court  martial,  was  merci- 
lessly put  to  death.  It  seemed  probable  that  the  Prince 
himself  would  suffer  the  same  fate.  It  was  with  difficulty 
that  the  intercession  of  the  States  of  Holland,  of  the  Kings 
of  Sweden  and  Poland,  and  of  the  Emperor  of  Germany, 
6aved  the  House  of  Brandenburg  from  the  stain  of  an  unnat* 


FREDERIC  THE  GREAT. 


663 


ural  murder.  After  months  of  cruel  suspense,  Frederic 
learned  that  his  life  would  be  spared.  He  remained,  how- 
ever, long  a prisoner ; but  he  was  not  on  that  account  to  be 
pitied.  He  found  in  his  jailers  a tenderness  which  he  had 
never  found  in  his  father  ; his  table  was  not  sumptuous,  but 
he  had  wholesome  food  in  sufficient  quantity  to  appease 
hunger : he  could  read  the  Henriade  without  being  kicked, 
and  could  play  on  his  flute  without  having  it  broken  over 
his  head. 

When  his  confinement  terminated  he  was  a man.  He 
had  nearly  completed  his  twenty-first  year,  and  could  scarce,  y 
be  kept  much  longer  under  the  restraints  which  had  made 
his  boyhood  miserable.  Suffering  had  matured  his  under- 
standing, while  it  had  hardened  his  heart  and  soured  his 
temper.  He  had  learnt  self-command  and  dissimulation  : he 
affected  to  conform  to  some  of  his  father’s  views,  and  sub- 
missively accepted  a wife,  who  was  a wife  only  in  name, 
from  his  father’s  hand.  He  also  served  with  credit,  though 
without  any  opportunity  of  acquiring  brilliant  distinction, 
under  the  command  of  Prince  Eugene,  during  a campaign 
marked  by  no  extraordinary  events.  He  was  now  per- 
mitted to  keep  a separate  establishment,  and  was  therefore 
able  to  indulge  with  caution  his  own  tastes.  Partly  in  order 
to  conciliate  the  King,  and  partly,  no  doubt,  from  inclina- 
tion, he  gave  up  a portion  of  his  time  to  military  and  polit- 
ical business,  and  thus  gradually  acquired  such  an  aptitude 
for  affairs  as  his  most  intimate  associates  were  not  aware 
that  he  possessed. 

His  favorite  abode  was  at  Rlieinsberg,  near  the  frontier 
which  separates  the  Prussian  dominions  from  the  Duchy  of 
Mecklenburg.  Rheinsberg  is  a fertile  and  smiling  spot,  in 
the  midst  of  the  sandy  waste  of  the  Marquisate.  The  man- 
sion, surrounded  by  woods  of  oak  and  beech,  looks  out  upon 
i\  spacious  lake.  There  Frederic  amused  himself  by  laying 
out  gardens  in  regular  alleys  and  intricate  mazes,  by  build- 
ing obelisks,  temples,  and  conservatories,  and  by  collecting 
rare  fruits  and  flowers.  His  retirement  was  enlivened  by  a 
few  companions,  among  whom  he  seems  to  have  preferred 
those  who,  by  birth  or  extraction,  were  French.  With  these 
inmates  he  dined  and  supped  well,  drank  freely,  and  amused 
himself  sometimes  with  concerts,  and  sometimes  with  hold- 
ing chapters  of  a fraternity  which  he  called  the  Order  oi 
Bayard ; but  literature  was  his  chief  resource. 

Ilis  education  had  been  entirely  French.  The  long  as. 


664  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

cendency  which  Lewis  the  Fourteenth  had  enjoyed,  and  the 
eminent  merit  of  the  tragic  and  comic  dramatists,  of  the 
satirists,  and  of  the  preachers  who  had  flourished  under  that 
magnificent  prince,  had  made  the  French  language  pre- 
dominant in  Europe.  Even  in  countries  which  had  a 
national  literature,  and  which  could  boast  of  names  greater 
than  those  of  Racine,  of  Moliere,  and  of  Massillon,  in  tho 
country  of  Dante,  in  the  country  of  Cervantes,  in  the  coun- 
try of  Shakspeare  and  Milton,  the  intellectual  fashions  of 
Paris  had  been  to  a great  extent  adopted.  Germany  had 
not  yet  produced  a single  masterpiece  of  poetry  or 
eloquence.  In  Germany,  therefore,  the  French  taste  reigned 
without  rival  and  without  limit.  Every  youth  of  rank  was, 
taught  to  speak  and  write  French.  That  he  should  speak 
and  write  his  own  tongue  with  politeness,  or  even  with  ac- 
curacy and  facility,  was  regarded  as  comparatively  an  un- 
important object.  Even  Frederic  William,  with  all  his  rug- 
ged Saxon  prejudices,  thought  it  necessary  that  his  children 
should  know  French,  and  quite  unnecessary  that  they  should 
be  well  versed  in  German.  The  Latin  was  positively  inter- 
dicted. “ My  son,”  his  Majesty  wrote,  “ shall  not  learn 
Latin  ; and  more  than  that,  I will  not  suffer  anybody  even 
to  mention  such  a thing  to  me.”  One  of  the  preceptors  ven- 
tured to  read  the  Golden  Bull  in  the  original  with  the 
Prince  Royal.  Frederic  William  entered  the  room,  and 
broke  out  in  his  usual  kingly  style. 

“ Rascal,  what  are  you  at  there  ? ” 

“ Please  your  Majesty,”  answered  the  preceptor,  “I  was 
explaining  the  Golden  Bull  to  his  Royal  Highness.” 

“I’ll  Golden  Bull  you,  you  rascal ! ” roared  the  Majesty 
of  Prussia.  Up  went  the  King’s  cane  ; away  ran  the  terri- 
fied instructor ; and  Frederic’s  classical  studies  ended  for 
ever.  He  now  and  then  affected  to  quote  Latin  sentences, 
and  produced  such  exquisitely  Ciceronian  phrases  as  these  : 
— “ Stante  pede  morire,” — “ De  gustibus  non  est  disput- 
andus,” — “ Tot  verbas  tot  spondera.”  Of  Italian,  he  had 
not  enough  to  read  a page  of  Metastasio  with  ease ; and  of 
the  Spanish  and  English,  he  did  not,  as  far  as  we  are  aware, 
understand  a single  word. 

As  the  highest  human  compositions  to  which  he  had 
access  were  those  of  the  French  writers,  it  is  not  strange 
that  his  admiration  for  those  writers  should  have  been  un- 
bounded. His  ambitious  and  eager  temper  early  prompted 
him  to  imitate  what  he  admired.  The  wish,  perhaps,  dearest 


FREDERIC  THE  GREAT. 


665 


his  heart  was,  that  he  might  rank  among  the  masters  of 
French  rhetoric  and  poetry.  He  wrote  prose  and  verse  as 
indefatigably  as  if  he  had  been  a starving  hack  of  Cave  or  a 
Osborn  ; but  Nature,  which  Fad  bestowed  on  him,  in  a large 
measure,  the  talents  of  a captain  and  of  an  administrator, 
had  withheld  from  him  those  higher  and  rarer  gifts,  without 
which  industry  labors  in  vain  to  produce  immortal  eloquence 
and  song.  And,  indeed,  had  he  been  blessc  ' with  more 
imagination,  wit,  and  fertility  of  thought,  than  he  appears 
to  have  had,  he  would  still  have  been  subject  to  one  great 
disadvantage,  which  would,  in  all  probability,  have  for  ever 
prevented  l ina  from  taking  a high  place  among  men  of 
letters.  He  had  not  the  full  command  of  any  language. 
There  was  no  machine  of  thought  which  he  could  employ 
with  perfect  ease,  confidence,  and  freedom.  He  had  Ger- 
man enough  to  scold  his  servants,  or  to  give  the  word 
of  command  to  his  grenadiers ; but  his  grammar  and  pro- 
nunciation were  extremely  bad.  He  found  it  difficult 
to  make  out  the  meaning  even  of  the  simplest  German 
poetry.  On  one  occasion  a version  of  Racine’s  Iphigenie 
was  read  to  him.  He  held  the  French  original  in  his  hand  ; 
but  was  forced  to  own  that,  even  with  such  help,  he  could 
not  understand  the  translation.  Tet,  though  he  had  neg- 
lected his  mother  tongue  in  order  to  bestow  all  his  atten- 
tion on  French,  his  French  was,  after  all,  the  French  of  a 
foreigner.  It  was  necessary  for  him  to  have  always  at  his 
back  some  men  of  letters  from  Paris  to  point  out  the  sole- 
cisms and  false  rhymes  of  which,  to  the  last,  he  was  fre- 
quently guilty.  Even  had  he  possessed  the  poetic  faculty, 
of  which,  as  far  as  we  can  judge,  he  was  utterly  destitute, 
the  want  of  a language  would  have  prevented  him  from 
being  a great  poet.  No  noble  work  of  imagination,  as  far 
as  we  recollect,  was  ever  composed  by  any  man,  except  in  a 
dialect  which  he  had  learned  without  remembering  how  or 
when,  and  which  he  had  spoken  with  perfect  ease  before  he 
had  ever  analyzed  its  structure.  Romans  of  great  abilities 
wrote  Greek  verses  ; but  how  many  of  those  verses  have  de- 
served to  live  ? Many  men  of  eminent  genius  have,  in  modern 
times,  written  Latin  poems  ; but,  as  far  as  we  are  aware, 
none 'of  those  poems,  not  even  Milton’s,  can  be  ranked  in 
the  first  class  of  art,  or  even  very  high  in  the  second.  It  is 
not  strange,  therefore,  that,  in  the  French  verses  of  Frederic, 
we  can  find  nothing  beyond  the  reach  of  any  man  of  good 
parts  and  industry,  nothing  above  the  level  of  Newdigato 


666 


MAC ATJLAY?&  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS, 


and  Seatonian  poetry,  Ilis  best  pieces  may  perhaps  rank 
with  the  worst  in  Dodsley’s  collection,  In  history,  he  suo 
ceeded  better.  We  do  not,  indeed,  find,  in  any  part  of  his 
voluminous  Memoirs,  either  deep  reflection  or  vivid  paint- 
ing, But  the  narrative  is  distinguished  by  clearness,  con- 
ciseness, good  sense,  and  a certain  air  of  truth  and  sim- 
plicity, which  is  singularly  graceful  in  a man  who,  having 
done  great  things,  sits  down  to  relate  them.  On  the  whole, 
however,  none  of  his  writings  are  so  agreeable  to  us  as  his 
Letters,  particularly  those  which  are  written  with  earnest- 
ness, and  are  not  embroidered  with  verses. 

It  is  not  strange  that  a young  man  devoted  to  literature, 
and  acquainted  only  with  the  literature  of  France,  should 
have  looked  with  profound  veneration  on  the  genius  of  Vol- 
taire. “ A man  who  has  never  seen  the  sun,”  says  Calderon, 
in  one  of  his  charming  comedies,  “ cannot  be  blamed  for 
thinking  that  no  glory  can  exceed  that  of  the  moon.  A 
man  who  has  seen  neither  moon  nor  sun,  cannot  be  blamed 
for  talking  of  the  unrivalled  brightness  of  the  morning  star.” 
Had  Frederic  been  able  to  read  Homer  and  Milton,  or 
even  Virgil  and  Tasso,  his  admiration  of  the  Henriade 
would  prove  that  he  was  utterly  destitute  of  the  power  of 
discerning  what  is  excellent  in  art.  Had  he  been  familiar 
with  Sophocles  or  Shakspeare,  we  should  have  expected  him 
to  appreciate  Zaire  more  justly.  Had  he  been  able  to  study 
Thucydides  and  Tacitus  in  the  original  Greek  and  Latin,  he 
would  have  known  that  there  were  heights  in  the  eloquence 
of  history  far  beyond  the  reach  of  the  author  of  the  Life  of 
Charles  the  Twelfth.  But  the  finest  heroic  poem,  several  of 
the  most  powerful  tragedies,  and  the  most  brilliant  and 
picturesque  historical  work  that  Frederic  had  ever  read 
were  Voltaire’s.  Such  high  and  various  excellence  moved 
the  young  prince  almost  to  adoration.  The  opinions  of 
Voltaire  on  religious  and  philosophical  questions  had  not 
yet  been  fully  exhibited  to  the  public.  At  a later  period, 
when  an  exile  from  his  country,  and  at  open  war  with  the 
Church,  he  spoke  out.  But  when  Frederic  was  at  Rheins- 
berg,  Voltaire  was  still  a courtier;  and,  though  he  could 
not  always  curve  his  petulant  wit,  he  had  as  yet  published 
nothing  that  could  exclude  him  from  Versailles,  and  little 
that  a divine  of  the  mild  and  generous  school  of  Grotius  and 
Tillotson  might  not  read  with  pleasure.  In  the  Henriade, 
in  Zaire,  and  in  Alzire,  Christian  piety  is  exhibited  in  the 
most  amiable  form:  and  .some  years  after  the  period  of 


FREDERIC  THE  GREAT. 


667 


which  we  are  writing,  a Pope  condescended  to  accept  the 
dedication  of  Mahomet.  The  real  sentiments  of  the  poet, 
however,  might  be  clearly  perceived  by  a keen  eye  through 
the  decent  disguise  with  which  he  veiled  them,  and  could 
not  escape  the  sagacity  of  Frederic,  who  held  similar  opin- 
ions, and  had  been  accustomed  to  practice  similar  dissimu- 
lation. 

The  Prince  wrote  to  his  idol  in  the  style  of  a worship- 
per ; and  V oltaire  replied  with  exquisite  grace  and  address. 
A correspondence  followed,  which  may  be  studied  with  ad- 
vantage by  those  who  wish  to  become  proficients  in  the  ig- 
noble art  of  flattery.  No  man  ever  paid  compliments  better 
than  Voltaire.  His  sweetest  confectionery  had  always  a 
delicate,  yet  stimulating  flavor,  which  was  delightful  to 
palates  wearied  by  the  coarse  preparations  of  inferior  artists. 
It  was  only  from  his  hand  that  so  much  sugar  could  be 
swallowed  without  making  the  swallower  sick.  Copies  of 
verses,  writing  desks,’  trinkets  of  amber,  were  exchanged 
between  the  friends.  Frederic  confided  his  writings  to 
Voltaire  ; and  Voltaire  applauded,  as  if  Frederic  had  been 
Racine  and  Rossuet  in  one.  One  of  his  Royal  Highness’s 
performances  was  a refutation  of  Macliiavelli.  Voltaire  un- 
dertook to  convey  it  to  the  press.  It  was  entitled  the  anti- 
Machiavel,  and  was  an  edifying  homily  against  rapacity, 
perfidy,  arbitrary  government,  unjust  war,  in  short,  against 
almost  everything  for  which  its  author  is  now  remembered 
among  men. 

The  old  King  uttered  now  and  then  a ferocious  growl  at 
the  diversions  of  Rheinsberg.  But  his  health  was  broken  ; 
his  end  was  approaching,  and  his  vigor  was  impaired.  He 
had  only  one  pleasure  left,  that  of  seeing  tall  soldiers.  He 
could  always  be  propitiated  by  a present  of  a grenadier  of 
six  feet  four  or  six  feet  five  ; and  such  presents  were  from 
time  to  time  judiciously  offered  by  his  son. 

Early  in  the  year  1740,  Frederic  William  met  death 
with  a firmness  and  dignity  worthy  of  a better  and  wiser 
man  ; and  Frederic,  who  had  just  completed  his  twenty- 
eighth  year,  became  King  of  Prussia.  His  character  was 
little  understood.  That  he  had  good  abilities,  indeed,  no 
person  who  had  talked  with  him,  or  corresponded  with  him, 
could  doubt.  But  the  easy,  Epicurean  life  which  he  had 
led,  his  love  of  good  cookery  and  good  wine,  of  music,  of 
conversation,  of  light  literature,  led  many  to  regard  him 
as  a sensual  and  intellectual  voluptuary.  His  habit  of  cant* 


668 


macattlay’s  miscellaneous  waitings. 


ing  about  moderation,  peace,  liberty,  and  the  happiness 
which  a good  mind  derives  from  the  happiness  of  others, 
had  imposed  on  some  who  should  have  known  better.  Those 
who  thought  best  of  him  expected  a Teleinachus  after  Fen  6- 
Ion's  pattern.  Others  predicted  the  approach  of  a Medicean 
age;  an  age  propitious  to  learning  and  art,  and  not  unpro- 
pitious  to  pleasure.  Nobody  had  the  least  suspicion  that  a 
tyrant  of  extraordinary  military  and  political  talents,  of  in- 
dustry more  extraordinary  still,  without  fear,  without  faith, 
and  without  mercy,  had  ascended  the  throne. 

The  disappointment  of  Falstaff  at  his  old  boon -com- 
panion’s coronation  was  not  more  bitter  than  that  which 
awaited  some  of  the  inmates  of  Rlieinsberg.  They  had  long 
looked  forward  to  the  accession  of  their  patron,  as  to  the 
event  from  which  their  own  prosperity  and  greatness  was  to 
date.  They  had  at  last  reached  the  promised  land,  the  land 
which  they  had  figured  to  themselves  as  flowing  with  milk 
and  honey  ; and  they  found  it  a desert.  “ No  more  of  these 
fooleries,”  was  the  short,  sharp  admonition  given  by  Fred- 
eric to  one  of  them.  It  soon  became  plain  that,  in  the  most 
important  points,  the  new  sovereign  bore  a strong  family 
likeness  to  his  predecessor.  There  was  indeed  a wide  dif- 
ference between  the  father  and  the  son  as  resj)ected  extent 
and  vigor  of  intellect,  speculative  opinions,  amusements, 
studies,  outward  demeanor.  But  the  groundwork  of  the 
character  was  the  same  in  both.  To  both  were  common  the 
love  of  order,  the  love  of  business,  the  military  taste,  the 
parsimony,  the  imperious  spirit,  the  temper  irritable  even 
to  ferocity,  the  pleasure  in  the  pain  and  humiliation  of 
others.  But  these  propensities  had  in  Frederic  William 
partaken  of  the  general  unsoundness  of  his  mind,  and  wore 
a very  different  aspect  when  found  in  company  with  the 
strong  and  cultivated  understanding  of  his  successor.  Thus, 
for  example,  Frederic  was  as  anxious  as  any  prince  could 
be  about  the  efficiency  of  his  army.  But  this  anxiety  never 
degenerated  into  a monomania,  like  that  which  led  his 
father  to  pay  fancy  prices  for  giants.  Frederic  was  as 
thrifty  about  money  as  any  prince  or  any  private  man 
ought  to  be.  But  he  did  not  conceive,  like  his  father,  that 
it  was  worth  while  to  eat  unwholesome  cabbages  for  the  sake 
of  saving  four  or  five  rixdollars  in  the  year.  Frederic  was, 
we  fear,  as  malevolent  as  his  father ; but  Frederic’s  wit 
enabled  him  often  to  show  his  malevolence  in  ways  more 
decent  than  those  to  which  his  father  resorted,  and  to  inflict 


FREDERIC  THE  GREAT. 


669 


misery  and  degradation  by  a taunt  instead  of  a blow . Fred 
eric,  it  is  true,  by  no  means,  relinguished  his  hereditary 
privilege  of  kicking  and  cudgelling.  His  practice,  however, 
as  to  that  matter,  differed  in  some  important  respects  from 
his  father’s.  To  Frederic  William,  the  mere  circumstance 
that  any  persons  whatever,  men,  women,  or  children,  Prus- 
sians or  foreigners,  were  within  reach  of  his  toes  and  of  his 
cane,  appeared  to  be  a sufficient  reason  for  proceeding  to 
belabor  them.  Frederic  required  provocation  as  well  as 
vicinity ; nor  was  he  ever  known  to  inflict  this  paternal 
species  of  correction  on  any  but  his  born  subjects ; though 
on  one  occasion  M.  Thiebault  had  reason,  during  a few 
seconds,  to  anticipate  the  high  honor  of  being  an  exception 
to  this  general  rule. 

The  character  of  Frederic  was  still  very  imperfectly 
understood  either  by  his  subjects  or  by  his  neighbors,  when 
events  occurred  which  exhibited  it  in  a strong  light.  A few 
months  after  his  accession  died  Charles  the  Sixth,  Emperoi 
of  Germany,  the  last  descendant,  in  the  male  line,  of  the 
House  of  Austria. 

Charles  left  no  son,  and  had,  long  before  his  death,  re- 
linquished all  hopes  of  male  issue.  During  the  latter  part 
of  his  life,  his  principal  object  had  been  to  secure  to  his 
descendants  in  the  female  line  the  many  crowns  of  the 
house  of  Hapsburg.  With  this  view,  he  had  promulgated 
a new  law  of  succession,  widely  celebrated  throughout 
Europe  under  the  name  of  the  Pragmatic  Sanction.  By 
virtue  of  this  law,  his  daughter,  the  Archduchess  Maria 
Theresa,  wife  of  Francis  of  Loraine,  succeeded  to  the 
dominions  of  her  ancestors. 

No  sovereign  has  ever  taken  possession  of  a throne  by  a 
clearer  title.  All  the  politics  of  the  Austrian  cabinet  had, 
during  twenty  years,  been  directed  to  one  single  end,  the 
settlement  of  the  succession.  From  every  person  whose 
rights  could  be  considered  as  injuriously  affected,  renun- 
ciations in  the  most  solemn  form  had  been  obtained.  The 
new  law  had  been  ratified  by  the  Estates  of  all  the  kingdoms 
and  jwincipalities  which  made  up  the  great  Austrian  mon- 
archy. England,  France,  Spain,  Russia,  Poland,  Prussia, 
Sweden,  Denmark,  the  Germanic  body,  had  bound  them- 
selves by  treaty  to  maintain  the  Pragmatic  Sanction.  That 
instrument  was  placed  under  the  protection  of  the  public 
faith  of  the  whole  civilized  world. 

Even  if  jiq  positive  stipulations  on  this  subject  had  ex- 


670 


macatjlay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


isted,  the  arrangement  was  one  which  no  good  man  would 
have  been  willing  to  disturb.  It  was  a peaceable  arrange- 
ment. It  was  an  arrangement  acceptable  to  the  great  popu- 
lation whose  happiness  was  chiefly  concerned.  It  was  an 
arrangement  which  made  no  change  in  the  distribution  of 
power  among  the  states  of  Christendom.  It  was  an  arrange- 
ment which  could  be  set  aside  only  by  means  of  a general 
war ; and  if  it  were  set  aside  the  effect  would  be,  that  the 
equilibrium  of  Europe  would  be  deranged,  that  the  loyal 
and  patriotic  feelings  of  millions  would  be  cruelly  outraged, 
and  that  great  provinces  which  had  been  united  for  centuries 
would  be  torn  from  each  other  by  main  force. 

The  sovereigns  of  Europe  were,  therefore,  bound  by 
every  obligation  which  those  who  are  intrusted  with  power 
over  their  fellow-creatures  ought  to  hold  most  sacred,  to 
respect  and  defend  the  rights  of  the  Archduchess.  Her 
situation  and  her  personal  qualities  were  such  as  might  be 
expected  to  move  the  mind  of  any  generous  man  to  pity, 
admiration,  and  chivalrous  tenderness.  She  was  in  her 
twenty-fourth  year.  Her  form  was  majestic,  her  features 
beautiful,  her  countenance  sweet  and  animated,  her  voice 
musical,  her  deportment  gracious  and  dignified.  In  all 
domestic  relations  she  was  without  reproach.  She  was 
married  to  a husband  wdiom  she  loved,  and  was  on  the 
point  of  giving  birth  to  a child,  when  death  deprived  her  of 
her  father.  The  loss  of  a parent,  and  the  new  cares  of 
empire,  were  too  much  for  her  in  the  delicate  state  of  her 
health.  Her  spirits  were  depressed,  and  her  cheek  lost  its 
bloom.  Yet  it  seemed  that  she  had  little  cause  for  anxiety. 
It  seemed  that  justice,  humanity,  and  the  faith  of  treaties 
would  have  their  due  weight,  and  that  the  settlement  so 
solemnly  guaranteed  would  be  quietly  carried  into  effect. 
England,  Russia,  Poland,  and  Holland  declared  in  form 
their  intention  to  adhere  to  their  engagements.  The  French 
ministers  made  a verbal  declaration  to  the  same  effect. 
But  from  no  quarter  did  the  young  Queen  of  Hungary 
receive  stronger  assurances  of  friendship  and  support  than 
from  the  King  of  Prussia. 

Yet  the  King  of  Prussia,  the  Anti-Machiavel,  had  already 
fully  determined  to  commit  the  great  crime  of  violating  his 
plighted  faith,  of  robbing  the  ally  whom  he  was  bound  to 
defend,  and  of  plunging  all  Europe  into  a long,  bloody,  and 
desolating  war ; and  all  this  for  no  end  whatever,  except 
that  he  might  extend  his  dominions,  and  see  his  name  in  th© 


FREDERIC  THE  GREAT. 


en 

gazettes.  He  determined  to  assemble  a great  army  with 
speed  and  secrecy,  to  invade  Silesia  before  Maria  Teresa 
should  be  apprised  of  his  design,  and  to  add  that  rich  prov- 
ince to  his  kingdom. 

We  will  not  condescend  to  refute  at  length  the  pleas 
wiiich  the  compiler  of  the  Memoirs  before  us  has  copied 
from  Doctor  Preuss.  They  amount  to  this,  that  the  house 
of  Brandenburg  had  some  ancient  pretensions  to  Silesia, 
and  had  in  the  previous  century  been  compelled,  by  hard 
usage  on  the  part  of  the  Court  of  Vienna,  to  waive  those 
pretensions.  It  is  certain  that,  whoever  might  originally 
have  been  in  the  right,  Prussia  submitted.  Prince  after 
prince  of  the  house  of  Brandenburg  had  acquiesced  in  the 
existing  arrangement.  Nay,  the  Court  of  Berlin  had  re- 
cently been  allied  with  that  of  Vienna,  and  had  guaranteed 
the  integrity  of  the  Austrian  states.  Is  it  not  perfectly 
clear  that,  if  antiquated  claims  are  to  be  set  up  against 
recent  treaties  and  long  possession,  the  world  can  never  be 
at  peace  for  a day  ? The  laws  of  all  nations  have  wisely 
established  a time  of  limitation,  after  which  titles,  however 
illegitimate  in  their  origin,  cannot  be  questioned.  It  is  felt 
by  everybody,  that  to  eject  a person  from  his  estate  on  the 
ground  of  some  injustice  committed  in  the  time  of  the 
Tudors  would  produce  all  the  evils  which  result  from  arbi- 
trary confiscation,  and  would  make  all  projierty  insecure. 
It  concerns  the  commonwealth — so  runs  the  legal  maxim — 
that  there  be  an  end  of  litigation.  And  surely  this  maxim 
is  at  least  equally  applicable  to  the  great  commonwealth  of 
states ; for  in  that  commonwealth  litigation  means  the  de- 
vastation of  provinces,  the  suspension  of  trade  and  industry, 
sieges  like  those  of  Badajoz  and  St.  Sebastian,  pitched  fields 
like  those  of  Eylau  and  Borodino.  We  hold  that  the  trans- 
fer of  Norway  from  Denmark  to  Sweden  was  an  unjusti- 
fiable proceeding ; but  would  the  king  of  Denmark  be  there- 
fore justified  in  landing,  without  any  new  provocation,  in 
Norway,  and  commencing  military  operations  there"?  The 
king  of  Holland  thinks,  no  doubt,  that  he  was  unjustly  de 
prived  of  the  Belgian  provinces.  Grant  4hat  it  were  so 
Would  he,  therefore,  be  justified  in  marching  with  ai 
army  on  Brussels?  The  case  against  Frederic  was  stif 
stronger,  inasmuch  as  the  injustice  of  which  he  complained 
had  been  committed  more  than  a century  before.  Nor  must 
it  be  forgotten  that  he  owed  the  highest  personal  obligations 
to  the  house  of  Austria.  It  may  be  doubted  whether  his 


672  macatjlay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

life  had  not  been  preserved  by  the  intercession  of  the  prince 
Whose  daughter  he  was  about  to  plunder. 

To  do  the  King  justice,  he  pretended  to  no  more  virtue 
than  he  had.  In  manifestoes  he  might,  for  form’s  sake,  in- 
sert some  idle  stories  about  his  antiquated  claim  on  Silesia; 
but  in  his  conversations  and  Memoirs  he  took  a very  dif- 
ferent tone.  His  own  wTords  are : “ Ambition,  interest,  the 
desire  of  making  people  talk  about  me,  carried  the  day  ; and  * 
I decided  for  war.” 

Having  resolved  on  this  course,  he  acted  with  ability 
and  vigor.  It  was  impossible  wholly  to  conceal  his  prepara- 
tions ; for  throughout  the  Prussian  territories  regiments, 
guns,  and  baggage  were  in  motion.  The  Austrian  envoy  at 
Berlin  apprised  his  court  of  these  facts,  and  expressed  a 
suspicion  of  Frederic’s  designs ; but  the  ministers  of  Maria 
Theresa  refused  to  give  credit  to  so  black  an  imputation  on 
a young  prince  who  was  known  chiefly  by  his  high  profes- 
sions of  integrity  and  philanthropy.  “We  will  not,”  they 
wrote,  “ we  cannot  believe  it.” 

In  the  mean  time  the  Prussian  forces  had  been  assembled. 
Without  any  declaration  of  war,  without  any  demand  for 
reparation,  in  the  very  act  of  pouring  fortlf  compliments 
and  assurances  of  good-will,  Frederic  commenced  hostilities. 
Many  thousands  of  his  troops  were  actually  in  Silesia  before 
the  Queen  of  Hungary  knew  that  he  had  set  up  any  claim 
to  any  part  of  her  territories.  At  length  he  sent  her  a 
message  which  could  be  regarded  only  as  an  insult.  If  she 
would  but  let  him  have  Silesia,  he  would,  he  said,  stand  by 
her  against  any  power  which  should  try  to  deprive  her  of 
her  other  dominions ; as  if  he  was  not  already  bound  to 
stand  by  her,  or  as  if  his  new  promise  could  be  of  more 
value  than  the  old  one. 

It  was  the  depth  of  winter.  The  cold  was  severe,  and 
the  roads  heavy  with  mire.  But  the  Prussians  pressed  on. 
Resistance  was  impossible.  The  Austrian  army  was  then 
neither  numerous  nor  efficient.  The  small  portion  of  that 
army  which  lay  in  Silesia  wras  unprepared  for  hostilities. 
Glogau  was  blockaded;  Breslau  opened  its  gates;  Ohlau 
was  evacuated.  A few  scattered  garrisons  still  held  out ; 
but  the  whole  open  country  was  subjugated : no  enemy 
ventured  to  encounter  the  King  in  the  field ; and,  before 
the  end  of  January,  1741,  he  returned  to  receive  the  con- 
gratulations of  his  subjects  at  Berlin. 

Had  the  Silesian  question  been  merely  a question  be- 


FREDERIC  THE  GREAT. 


873 


tween  Frederic  and  Maria  Theresa,  it  would  be  impossible 
to  acquit  the  Prussian  King  of  gross  perfidy.  But  when  we 
consider  the  effects  which  his  policy  produced,  and  could 
not  fail  to  produce,  on  the  whole  community  of  civilized 
nations,  we  are  compelled  to  pronounce  a condemnation 
still  more  severe.  Till  he  began  the  war,  it  seemed  possible, 
even  probable,  that  the  peace  of  the  world  would  be  pre- 
served. The  plunder  of  the  great  Austrian  heritage  was  in- 
deed a strong  temptation  ; and  in  more  than  one  cabinet 
ambitious  schemes  were  already  meditated.  But  the  treaties 
by  which  the  Pragmatic  Sanction  had  been  guaranteed  were 
express  and  recent.  To  throw  all  Europe  into  confusion 
for  a purpose  clearly  unjust,  was  no  light  matter.  England 
Was  true  to  her  engagements.  The  voice  of  Fleury  had 
always  been  for  peace.  He  had  a conscience.  He  was  now 
in  extreme  old  age,  and  was  unwilling,  after  a life  which, 
when  his  situation  was  considered,  must  be  pronounced 
singularly  pure,  to  carry  the  fresh  stain  of  a great  crime 
before  the  tribunal  of  his  God.  E^en  the  vain  and  un- 
principled Belle-Isle,  whose  whole  life  was  one  wild  day- 
dream of  conquest  and  spoliation,  felt  that  France,  bound 
as  she  was  by  solemn  stipulations,  could  not,  without  dis- 
grace, make  a direct  attack  on  the  Austrian  dominions. 
Charles,  Elector  of  Bavaria,  pretended  that  he  had  a right 
to  a large  part  of  the  inheritance  which  the  Pragmatic 
Sanction  gave  to  the  Queen  of  Hungary ; but  he  was  not 
sufficiently  powerful  to  move  without  support.  It  might, 
therefore,  not  unreasonably  be  expected  that,  after  a short 
period  of  restlessness,  all  the  potentates  of  Christendom 
would  acquiesce  in  the  arrangements  made  by  the  late  Em- 
peror. But  the  selfish  rapacity  of  the  King  of  Prussia  gave 
the  signal  to  his  neighbors.  His  example  quieted  their 
sense  of  shame.  His  success  led  them  to  underrate  the  dif- 
ficulty of  dismembering  the  Austrian  monarch.  The  whole 
world  SDrang  to  arms.  On  the  head  of  Frederic  is  all  the 
blood  wnicn  was  shed  in  a war  which  raged  during  many 
years  in  every  quarter  of  the  globe,  the  blood  of  the  column 
of  Fontenoy,  the  blood  of  the  mountaineers  who  were 
slaughtered  at  Culloden.  The  evils  produced  by  his  wick- 
edness were  felt  in  lands  where  the  name  of  Prussia  was 
unknown  ; and,  in  order  that  he  might  rob  a neighbor  whom 
he  had  promised  to  defend,  black  men  fought  on  the  coast 
of  Coromandel,  and  red  men  scalped  each  other  by  the 
Lakes  of  North  America, 

Vo*.  11.-43 


674 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


Silesia  had  been  occupied  without  a battle ; but  the 
Austrian  troops  were  advancing  to  the  relief  of  the  fort- 
resses which  still  held  out.  In  the  spring  Frederic  rejoined 
his  army.  He  had  seen  little  of  war,  and  had  never  com- 
manded any  great  body  of  men  in  the  field.  It  is  not, 
therefore,  strange  that  his  first  military  operations  showed 
little  of  that  skill  which,  at  a later  period,  was  the  admi- 
ration of  Europe.  What  connoisseurs  say  of  some  pictures 
Dainted  by  Raphael  in  his  youth,  may  be  said  of  this  cam- 
paign. It  was  in  Frederic’s  early  bad  manner.  Fortu- 
nately for  him,  the  generals  to  whom  he  was  opposed  were 
men  of  small  capacity.  The  discipline  of  his  own  troops, 
particularly  of  the  infantry,  was  unequalled  in  that  age; 
and  some  able  and  experienced  officers  were  at  hand  to 
assist  him  with  their  advice.  Of  these,  the  most  distin- 
guished was  Field-Marshal  Schwerin,  a brave  adventurer  of 
Pomeranian  extraction,  who  had  served  half  the  govern- 
ments in  Europe,  had  borne  the  commissions  of  the  States 
General  of  Holland  and  of  the  Duke  of  Mecklenburg,  had 
fought  under  Marlborough  at  Blenheim,  and  had  been  with 
Charles  the  Twelfth  at  Bender. 

Frederic’s  first  battle  was  fought  at  Molwitz;  and  never 
did  the  career  of  a great  commander  open  in  a more  inau- 
spicious manner.  His  army  was  victorious.  Not  only, 
however,  did  he  not  establish  his  title  to  the  character  of  an 
able  general ; but  he  was  so  unfortunate  as  to  make  it  doubt- 
ful whether  he  possessed  the  vulgar  courage  of  a soldier. 
The  cavalry,  which  he  commanded  in  person,  was  put  to 
flight.  Unaccustomed  to  the  tumult  and  carnage  of  a field 
of  battle,  he  lost  his  self-possession,  and  listened  too  readily 
to  those  who  urged  him  to  save  himself.  His  English  gray 
carried  him  many  miles  from  the  field,  while  Schwerin, 
though  wounded  in  two  places,  manfully  upheld  the  day. 
The  skill  of  the  old  Field-Marshal  and  the  steadiness  of  the 
Prussian  battalions  prevailed  ; and  the  Austrian  army  was 
driven  from  the  field  with  the  loss  of  eight  thousand  men.  | 

The  news  was  carried  late  at  night  to  a mill  in  which  the 
King  had  taken  shelter.  It  gave  him  a bitter  pang.  He 
was  successful ; but  he  owed  his  success  to  dispositions 
which  others  had  made,  and  to  the  valor  of  men  who  had 
fought  while  he  was  flying.  So  unpromising  was  the  first 
appearance  of  the  greatest  warrior  of  that  age. 

The  battle  of  Molwitz  was  the  signal  for  a general  ex- 
plosion thro ughout  Europe.  Bavaria  took  up  arms.  France, 


FREDERIC  THE.  GREAt. 


G75 


not  yet  declaring  herself  a principal  in  the  war,  took  part 
in  it  as  an  ally  of  Bavaria.  The  two  great  statesmen  to 
whom  mankind  had  owed  many  years  of  tranquillity,  disap- 
peared about  this  time  from  the  scene,  but  not  till  they  had 
both  been  guilty  of  the  weakness  of  sacrificing  their  sense 
of  justice  and  their  love  of  peace  to  the  vain  hope  of  pre- 
serving their  power.  Fleury,  sinking  under  age  and  infirm- 
ity, was  borne  down  by  the  impetuosity  of  Belle-Isle.  Wal- 
pole retired  from  the  service  of  his  ungrateful  country  to 
liis  woods  and  paintings  at  Houghton ; and  his  power 
devolved  on  the  daring  and  eccentric  Carteret.  As  were 
the  ministers,  so  were  the  nations.  Thirty  years  during 
which  Europe  had,  with  few  interruptions,  enjoyed  repose, 
had  prepared  the  public  mind  for  great  military  efforts.  A 
new  generation  had  grown  up,  which  could  not  remembei 
the  siege  of  Turin  or  the  slaughter  of  Malplaquet ; which 
knew  war  by  nothing  but  its  trophies ; and  which,  while  it 
looked  with  pride  on  the  tapestries  at  Blenheim,  or  the 
statue  in  the  Place  of  Victories,  little  thought  by  what 
privations,  by  what  waste  of  private  fortunes,  by  how  many 
bitter  tears,  conquests  must  be  purchased. 

For  a time  fortune  seemed  adverse  to  the  Queen  of 
Hungary.  Frederic  invaded  Moravia.  The  French  and 
Bavarians  penetrated  into  Bohemia,  and  were  there  joined 
by  the  Saxons.  Prague  was  taken.  The  Elector  of  Bavaria 
was  raised  by  the  suffrages  of  his  colleagues  to  the  Imperial 
throne,  a throne  which  the  practice  of  centuries  had  almost 
entitled  the  House  of  Austria  to  regard  as  a hereditary  pos- 
session. 

Yet  was  the  spirit  of  the  haughty  daughter  of  the  Csesars 
unbroken.  Hungary  was  still  hers  by  an  unquestionable 
title ; and  although  her  ancestors  had  found  Hungary  the 
most  mutinous  of  all  their  kingdoms,  she  resolved  to  trust 
herself  to  the  fidelity  of  a people,  rude  indeed,  turbulent, 
and  impatient  of  oppression,  but  brave,  generous,  and  simple- 
hearted.  In  the  midst  of  distress  and  peril  she  had  given 
birth  to  a son,  afterwards  the  Emperor  Joseph  the  Second. 
Scarcely  had  she  risen  from  her  couch,  when  she  hastened 
to  Presburg.  There,  in  the  sight  of  an  innumerable  multi- 
tude, she  was  crowned  with  the  crown  and  robed  with  the 
robe  of  St.  Stephen.  No  spectator  could  restrain  his  tears 
when  the  beautiful  young  mother,  still  weak  from  child- 
bearing, rode,  after  the  fashion  of  her  fathers,  up  the  Mount 
of  Defiance,  unsheathed  the  ancient  sword  of  state,  shook  it 


876  macattlay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

towards  north  and  south,  east  and  west,  and  with  a glow 
on  her  pale  face  challenged  the  four  corners  of  the  world  to 
dispute  her  rights  and  those  of  her  boy.  At  the  first  sitting 
of  the  Diet  she  appeared  clad  in  deep  mourning  fcr  her 
father,  and  in  pathetic  and  dignified  words  implored  her 
people  to  support  her  just  cause.  Magnates  and  deputies 
sprang  up,  half  drew  their  sabres,  and  with  eager  voices 
vowed  to  stand  by  her  with  their  lives  and  fortunes.  Till 
then  her  firmness  had  never  once  forsaken  her  before  the 
public  eye ; but  at  that  shout  she  sank  down  upon  her 
throne,  and  wept  aloud.  Still  more  touching  was  the  sight 
when,  a few  days  later,  she  came  before  the  estates  of  hx* 
realm,  and  held  up  before  them  the  little  Archduke  in  her 
arms.  Then  it  was  that  the  enthusiasm  of  Hungary  broke* 
forth  into  that  war-cry  which  soon  resounded  throughout 
Europe,  “ Let  us  die  for  our  King,  Maria  Theresa ! ” 

In  the  mean  time,  Frederic  was  meditating  a change  of 
policy.  He  had  no  wish  to  raise  France  to  supreme  power 
'on  the  Continent,  at  the  expense  of  the.  house  of  Hapsburg. 

His  first  object  was  to  rob  the  Queen  of  Hungary.  His 
second  object  was  that,  if  possible,  nobody  should  rob  her 
but  himself.  He  had  entered  into  engagements  with  the 
powers  leagued  against  Austria;  but  these  engagements 
were  in  his  estimation  of  no  more  force  than  the  guarantee 
formerly  given  to  the  Pragmatic  Sanction.  His  plan  now 
was  to  secure  his  share  of  the  plunder  by  betraying  his  ac- 
complices. Maria  Theresa  was  little  inclined  to  listen  to 
any  such  compromise ; but  the  English  government  repre- 
sented to  her  so  strongly  the  necessity  of  buying  off  Fred- 
eric, that  she  agreed  to  negotiate.  The  negotiation  would 
not,  however,  have  ended  in  a treaty,  had  not  the  arms  of 
Frederic  been  crowned  with  a second  victory.  Prince 
Charles  of  Lorraine,  brother-in-law  to  Maria  Theresa,  a bold 
and  active,  though  unfortunate  general,  gave  battle  to  the 
Prussians  at  Chotusitz,  and  was  defeated.  The  king  was  | 
still  only  a learner  of  the  military  art.  He  acknowledged, 
at  a later  period,  that  his  success  on  this  occasion  was  to  be 
attributed,  not  at  all  to  his  own  generalship,  but  solely  to 
the  valor  and  steadiness  of  his  troops.  He  completely 
effaced,  however,  by  his  personal  courage  and  energy,  the 
stain  which  Mohvitz  had  left  on  his  reputation. 

A peace,  concluded  under  tne  English  mediation,  was 
the  fruit  of  this  battle.  Maria  Theresa  ceded  Silesia  : 
Frederic  abandoned  his  allies : Saxony  followed  his  exam- 


FREDERIC  TIXE  GREAT. 


677 


pie ; and  the  Queen  was  left  at  liberty  to  turn  her  whole 
force  against  France  and  Bavaria.  She  was  everywhere  tri- 
umphant. The  French  were  compelled  to  evacuate  Bo- 
hemia, and  with  difficulty  effected  their  escape.  The  whole 
line  of  their  retreat  might  be  tracked  by  the  corpses  of 
thousands  who  had  died  of  cold,  fatigue  and  hunger.  Many 
of  those  who  reached  their  country  carried  with  them  the 
seeds  of  death.  Bavaria  was  overrun  by  bands  of  ferocious 
warriors  from  that  bloody  debatable  land  which  lies  on  the 
frontier  between  Christendom  and  Islam.  The  terrible 
names  of  the  Pandoor,  the  Croat,  and  the  Hussar,  then  first 
became  familiar  to  Western  Europe.  The  unfortunate 
Charles  of  Bavaria,  vanquished  by  Austria,  betrayed  by 
Prussia,  driven  from  his  hereditary  states,  and  neglected  by 
his  allies,  was  hurried  by  shame  and  remorse  to  an  untimely 
end.  An  English  army  appeared  in  the  heart  of  Germany, 
and  defeated  the  French  at  Dettingen.  The  Austrian  cap- 
tains already  began  to  talk  of  completing  the  work  of  Marl- 
borough and  Eugene,  and  of  compelling  France  to  relinquish 
Alsace  and  the  Three  Bishoprics. 

The  Court  of  Versailles,  in  this  peril,  looked  to  Frederic 
for  help.  He  had  been  guilty  of  two  great  treasons : per- 
haps he  might  be  induced  to  commit  a third.  The  Duchess 
of  Chateauroux  then  held  the  chief  influence  over  the  feeble 
Lewis.  She  determined  to  send  an  agent  to  Berlin ; and 
Voltaire  was  selected  for  the  mission.  He  eagerly  under- 
took the  task ; for,  while  his  literary  fame  filled  all  Europe, 
he  was  troubled  with  a childish  craving  for  political  distinc- 
tion. He  was  vain,  and  not  without  reason,  of  his  address, 
and  of  his  insinuating  eloquence ; and  he  flattered  himself 
that  he  possessed  boundless  influence  over  the  King  of 
Prussia.  The  truth  was  that  he  knew,  as  yet,  only  one  cor- 
ner of  Frederic’s  character.  He  was  well  acquainted  with 
all  the  petty  vanities  and  affectations  of  the  poetaster  ; but 
was  not  aware  that  these  foibles  were  united  with  all  the 
talents  and  vices  which  lead  to  success  in  active  life,  and  that 
the  unlucky  versifier  who  pestered  him  with  reams  of  mid- 
dling Alexandrines,  was  the  most  vigilant,  suspicious,  and 
severe  of  politicians. 

Voltaire  was  received  with  every  mark  of  respect  and 
friendship,  was  lodged  in  the  palace,  and  had  a seat  daily  at 
the  royal  table.  The  negotiation  was  of  an  extraordinary 
description.  Nothing  can  be  conceived  more  whimsical 
than  the  conferences  which  took  place  between  the  first 


678  macatjlay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

literary  man  and  the  first  practical  man  of  the  age,  whom  a 
strange  weakness  had  induced  to  exchange  their  parts.  The 
great  poet  would  talk  of  nothing  but  treaties  and  guarantees, 
and  the  great  King  of  nothing  but  metaphors  and  rhymes. 
On  one  occasion  Voltaire  put  into  his  Majesty’s  hands  a 
paper  on  the  state  of  Europe,  and  received  it  back  with 
verses  scrawled  on  the  margin.  In  secret  they  both  laughed 
at  each  other.  V oltaire  did  not  spare  the  King’s  poems ; 
and  the  King  has  left  on  record  his  opinion  of  Voltaire’s 
diplomacy.  “ lie  had  no  credentials/’  says  Frederic,  “ and 
the  whole  mission  was  a joke,  a mere  farce.” 

But  what  the  influence  of  Voltaire  could  not  effect,  the 
rapid  progress  of  Austrian  arms  effected.  If  it  should  be 
in  the  power  of  Maria  Theresa  and  George  the  Second  to 
dictate  terms  of  peace  to  France,  what  chance  was  there 
that  Prussia  would  long  retain  Silesia?  Frederic’s  con- 
science told  him  that  he  had  acted  perfidiously  and  in- 
humanly towards  the  Queen  of  Hungary.  That  her  resent- 
ment was  strong  she  had  given  ample  proof ; and  of  her 
respect  for  treaties  he  judged  by  his  own.  Guarantees,  he 
said,  -were  mere  filigree,  pretty  to  look  at,  but  too  brittle  to 
bear  the  slightest  pressure.  lie  thought  it  his  safest  course 
to  ally  himself  closely  to  France,  and  again  to  attack  the 
Empress  Queen.  Accordingly,  in  the  autumn  of  1744,  with- 
out notice,  without  any  decent  pretext,  he  recommenced 
hostilities,  marched  through  the  electorate  of  Saxony  with- 
out troubling  himself  about  the  permission  of  the  Elector, 
invaded  Bohemia,  took  Prague,  and  even  menaced  Vienna. 

It  was  now  that,  for  the  first  time,  he  experienced  the 
inconstancy  of  fortune.  An  Austrian  army  under  Charles 
of  Lofaine  threatened  his  communications  with  Silesia. 
Saxony  was  all  in  arms  behind  him.  He  found  it  necessary 
to  save  himself  by  a retreat.  He  afterwards  owned  that  his 
failure  was  the  natural  effect  of  his  own  blunders.  No 
general,  he  said,  had  ever  committed  greater  faults.  It  must 
be  added,  that  to  the  reverses  of  this  campaign  he  always 
ascribed  his  subsequent  successes.  It  was  in  the  midst  of 
difficulty  and  disgrace  that  he  caught  the  first  dear  glimpse 
of  the  principles  of  the  military  art. 

The  memorable  ^ oar  1745  followed.  The  war  raged  by 
sea  and  land,  in  Italy,  in  Germany,  and  in  Flanders ; and  even 
England,  after  many  years  of  profound  internal  quiet,  saw, 
for  the  last  time,  hostile  armies  set  in  battle  array  &gams i 
each  other.  This  year  is  memorable  in  the  life  of  Frederic, 


FREDERIC  THE  GREAT. 


679 


as  the  date  at  which  his  noviciate  in  the  art  of  war  may  be 
6aid  to  have  terminated.  There  have  been  great  captains 
whose  precocious  and  self-taught  military  skill  resembled 
intuition.  Conde,  Clive,  and  Napoleon  are  examples.  But 
Frederic  was  not  one  of  these  brilliant  portents.  His  pro- 
ficiency in  military  science  was  simply  the  proficiency  which 
a man  of  vigorous  faculties  makes  in  any  science  to  which 
he  applies  his  mind  with  earnestness  and  industry.  It  was 
at  Hohenfriedberg  that  he  first  proved  how  much  he  had 
profited  by  his  errors,  and  by  their  consequences.  His  vic- 
tory on  that  day  was  chiefly  due  to  his  skilful  dispositions, 
and  convinced  Europe  that  the  prince  who,  a few  years  be- 
fore, had  stood  aghast  in  the  rout  of  Molwitz,  had  attained 
in  the  military  art  a mastery  equalled  by  none  of  his  con- 
temporaries, or  equalled  by  Saxe  alone.  The  victory  of 
Hohenfriedberg  was  speedily  followed  by  that  of  Sorr. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  arms  of  France  had  been  victori- 
ous in  the  Low  Countries.  Frederic  had  no  longer  reason 
to  fear  that  Maria  Theresa  would  be  able  to  give  law  to 
Europe,  and  he  began  to  meditate  a fourth  breach  of  his 
engagements.  The  court  of  Versailles  was  alarmed  and 
mortified.  A letter  of  earnest  expostulation,  in  the  hand- 
writing of  Lewis,  was  sent  to  Berlin  ; but  in  vain.  In  the 
autumn  of  1745,  Frederic  made  peace  with  England,  and, 
before  the  close  of  the  year,  with  Austria  also.  The  pre- 
tensions of  Charles  of  Bavaria  could  present  no  obstacle  to 
an  accommodation.  That  unhappy  prince  was  no  more ; 
and  Francis  of  Loraine,  the  husband  of  Maria  Theresa,  was 
raised,  with  the  general  assent  of  the  Germanic  body,  to  the 
imperial  throne. 

Prussia  was  again  at  peace ; but  the  European  war  lasted 
tiL,  in  the  year  1748,  it  was  terminated  by  the  treaty  of  Aix- 
la-Chapelle.  Of  all  the  powers  that  had  taken  part  in  it, 
the  only  gainer  was  Frederic.  Not  only  had  he  added  to 
his  patrimony  the  fine  province  of  Silesia : he  had,  by  his 
unprincipled  dexterity,  succeeded  so  well  in  alternately 
depressing  the  scale  of  Austria  and  that  of  France,  that  he 
was  generally  regarded  as  holding  the  balance  of  Europe,  a 
high  dignity  for  one  who  ranked  lowest  among  kings,  and 
whose  great-grandfather  had  been  no  more  than  a Margrave.  ~~ 
By  the  public,  the  King  ot  Prussia  was  considered  as  a 
politician  destitute  alike  of  morality  and  decency,  insatiably 
rapacious,  and  shamelessly  false ; nor  was  the  public  muck 
in  the  wrong.  He  was  at  the  same  time  allowed  to  be  a 


880  MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

man  of  parts,  a rising  general,  a shrewd  negotiator  and 
administrator.  Those  qualities  wherein  he  surpassed  all 
mankind,  were  as  yet  unknown  to  others  or  to  himself ; for 
they  were  qualities  which  shine  out  only  on  a dark  ground. 
His  career  had  hitherto,  with  little  interruption,  been  pros- 
perous ; and  it  was  only  in  adversity,  in  adversity  which 
6eemed  without  hope  or  resource,  in  adversity  which  would 
have  overwhelmed  even  men  celebrated  for  strength  of  mind^ 
that  his  real  greatness  could  be  shown. 

He  had,  from  the  commencement  of  his  reign,  applied 
himself  to  public  business  after  a fashion  unknown  among 
kings.  Lewis  the  Fourteenth,  indeed,  had  been  his  own 
prime  minister,  and  had  exercised  a general  superintendence 
over  all  the  departments  of  the  government ; but  this  was 
not  sufficient  for  Frederic.  He  was  not  content  with  being 
his  own  prime  minister : he  would  be  his  own  sole  minister. 
Under  him  there  was  no  room,  not  merely  for  a Richelieu 
or  a Mazarin,  but  for  a Colbert,  a Louvois,  or  a Torcy.  A 
love  of  labor  for  its  own  sake,  a restless  and  insatiable  long- 
ing to  dictate,  to  intermeddle,  to  make  his  power  felt,  a pro- 
found scorn  and  distrust  of  his  fellow-creatures,  made  him 
unwilling  to  ask  counsel,  to  confide  important  secrets,  to 
delegate  ample  powers.  The  highest  functionaries  under  his 
government  were  mere  clerks,  and  were  not  so  much  trusted 
by  him  as  valuable  clerks  are  often  trusted  by  the  heads  of 
departments.  He  was  his  own  treasurer,  his  own  com- 
mander-in-chief, his  own  intendant  of  public  works,  his  own 
minister  for  trade  and  justice,  for  home  affairs  and  foreign 
affairs,  his  own  master  of  the  horse,  steward  and  chamber- 
lain.  Matters  of  which  no  chief  of  an  office  in  any  other 
government  would  ever  hear  were,  in  this  singular  monarchy, 
decided  by  the  King  in  person.  If  a traveller  wished  for  a 
good  place  to  see  a review,  he  had  to  write  to  Frederic,  and 
received  next  day  from  a royal  messenger,  Frederic’s  answer 
signed  by  Frederic’s  own  hand.  This  was  an  extravagant, 
a morbid  activity.  The  public  business  would  assuredly 
have  been  better  done  if  each  department  had  been  put 
under  a man  of  talents  and  integrity,  and  if  the  King  had 
contented  himself  with  a general  control.  In  this  manner 
the  advantages  which  belong  to  unity  of  design,  and  the 
advantages  which  belong  to  the  division  of  labor,  would  have 
been  to  a great  extent  combined.  But  such  a system  would 
not  have  suited  the  peculiar  temper  of  Frederic.  Ha  could 
tolerate  no  will,  no  reason,  in  the  state,  save  his  qwu.  Hq 


SMfcEmC!  M®  GH® AT. 


881 


wished  for  no  abler  assistance  than  that  of  penmen  who  had 
just  understanding  enough  to  translate  and  transcribe,  to 
make  out  his  scrawls,  and  to  put  his  concise  Yes  and  No 
into  an  official  form.  Of  the  higher  intellectual  faculties, 
there  is  as  much  in  a copying  machine,  or  a lithographic 
press,  as  he  required  from  a secretary  of  the  cabinet. 

His  own  exertions  were  such  as  were  hardly  to  be  ex- 
pected from  a human  body  or  a human  mind.  At  Potsdam, 
his  ordinary  residence,  he  rose  at  three  in  summer  and  four 
in  winter.  A page  soon  appeared,  with  a large  basket  full 
of  all  the  letters  which  had  arrived  for  the  King  by  the  last 
courier,  despatches  from  ambassadors,  reports  from  officers 
of  revenue,  plans  of  buildings,  proposals  for  draining  marshes, 
complaints  from  persons  who  thought  themselves  aggrieved, 
applications  from  persons  who  wanted  titles,  military  com- 
missions and  civil  situations.  He  examined  the  seals  with 
a keen  eye ; for  he  was  never  for  a moment  free  from  the 
suspicion  that  some  fraud  might  be  practised  on  him.  Then 
he  read  the  letters,  divided  them  into  several  packets,  and 
signified  his  pleasure,  generally  by  a mark,  often  by  two  or 
three  words,  now  and  then  by  some  cutting  epigram.  By 
eight  he  had  generally  finished  this  part  of  his  task.  The 
adjutant-general  was  then  in  attendance,  and  received  in- 
structions for  the  day  as  to  all  the  military  arrangements  of 
the  kingdom.  Then  the  King  went  to  review  his  guards, 
not  as  kings  ordinarily  review  their  guards,  but  with  the 
minute  attention  and  severity  of  an  old  drill-sergeant.  In 
the  mean  time  the  four  cabinet  secretaries  had  been  employed 
in  answering  the  letters  on  which  the  King  had  that  morn- 
ing signified  his  will.  These  unhappy  men  were  forced  to 
work  all  the  year  round  like  negro  slaves  in  the  time  of  the 
sugar-crop.  They  never  had  a holiday.  They  never  knew 
what  it  was  to  dine.  It  was  necessary  that,  before  they 
stirred,  they  should  finish  the  whole  of  their  work.  The 
King,  always  on  his  guard  against  treachery,  took  from  the 
heap  a handful  of  letters  at  random,  and  looked  into  them 
to  see  whether  his  instructions  had  been  exactly  followed. 
This  was  no  bad  security  against  foul  play  on  the  part  of  the 
secretaries ; for  if  one  of  them  were  detected  in  a trick,  he 
might  think  himself  fortunate  if  he  escaped  with  five  years 
of  imprisonment  in  a dungeon.  Frederic  then  signed  the 
replies,  and  all  were  sent  off  the  same  evening. 

The  general  principles  on  which  this  strange  government 
was  conducted,  deserve  attention.  The  policy  of  Frederic 


082 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


was  essentially  the  same  as  his  father’s ; but  Frederic,  while 
he  carried  that  policy  to  lengths  to  which  his  father  never 
thought  of  carrying  it,  cleared  it  at  the  same  time  from  the 
absurdities  with  which  his  father  had  encumbered  it.  The 
King’s  first  object  was  to  have  a great,  efficient,  and  well- 
trained  army.  He  had  a kingdom  which  in  extent  and 
population  was  hardly  in  the  second  rank  of  European 
powers  ; and  yet  he  aspired  to  a place  not  inferior  to  that 
of  the  sovereigns  of  England,  France,  and  Austria.  For 
that  end  it  was  necessary  that  Prussia  should  be  all  sting. 
Lewis  the  Fifteenth,  with  five  times  as  many  subjects  as 
Frederic,  and  more  than  five  times  as  large  a revenue,  had 
not  a more  formidable  army.  The  proportion  which  the 
soldiers  in  Prussia  bore  to  the  people  seems  hardly  credible. 
Of  the  males  in  the  vigor  of  life,  a seventh  part  were  pro- 
bably under  arms  ; and  this  great  force  had,  by  drilling,  by 
reviewing,  and  by  the  unsparing  use  of  cane  and  scourge, 
been  taught  to  perform  all  evolutions  with  a rapidity  and  a 
precision  which  would  have  astonished  Villars  or  Eugene. 
The  elevated  feelings  which  are  necessary  to  the  best  kind 
of  army  were  then  wanting  to  the  Prussian  service.  In 
those  ranks  were  not  found  the  religious  and  political  en- 
thusiasm which  inspired  the  pikemen  of  Cromwell,  the 
patriotic  ardor,  the  thirst  of  glory,  the  devotion  to  a great 
leader,  which  inflamed  the  Old  Guard  of  Napoleon.  But  in 
all  the  mechanical  parts  of  the  military  calling,  the  Prussians 
were  as  superior  to  the  English  and  French  troops  of  that 
day  as  the  English  and  French  troops  to  a rustic  militia. 

Though  the  pay  of  the  Prussian  soldier  was  small, 
though  every  rixdollar  of  extraordinary  charge,  was  scruti- 
nized by  Frederic  with  a vigilance  and  suspicion  such  as 
Mr.  Joseph  Hume  never  brought  to  the  examination  of  an 
army  estimate,  the  expense  of  such  an  establishment  was, 
for  the  means  of  the  country,  enormous.  In  order  that  it 
might  not  be  utterly  ruinous,  it  was  necessary  that  every 
other  expense  should  be  cut  down  to  the  lowest  pos- 
eible  point.  Accordingly  Frederic,  though  his  dominions 
bordered  on  the  sea,  had  no  navy.  He  neither  had  nor 
wished  to  have  colonies.  His  judges,  his  fiscal  officers,  were 
meanly  paid.  His  ministers  at  foreign  courts  walked  on 
foot,  or  drove  shabby  old  carriages  till  the  axletrees  gave 
way.  Even  to  his  highest  diplomatic  agents,  who  resided  at 
London  and  Paris,  he  allowed  less  than  a thousand  pounds 
sterling  a year.  The  royal  household  was  managed  with  a 


FREDERIC  THE  GREAT. 


683 


frugality  unasua!  in  the  establishments  of  opulent  subjects, 
unexampled  in  any  other  palace.  The  King  loved  good 
eating  and  drinking,  and  during  the  great  part  of  his  life 
took  pleasure  in  seeing  his  table  surrounded  by  guests  ; yet 
the  whole  charge  of  his  kitchen  was  brought  within  the  sum 
of  two  thousand  pounds  sterling  a year.  He  examined 
every  extraordinary  item  with  a care  which  might  bo 
thought  to  suit  the  mistress  of  a boarding  house  better  than 
a great  prince.  When  more  than  four  rixdollars  were  asked 
of  him  for  a hundred  oysters,  he  stormed  as  if  he  had  heai  d 
that  one  of  his  generals  had  sold  a fortress  to  the  Empress 
Queen.  Hot  a bottle  of  Champagne  was  uncorked  without 
his  express  order.  The  game  of  the  royal  parks  and  forests, 
a serious  head  of  expenditure  in  most  kingdoms,  was  to  him 
a source  of  profit.  The  whole  was  farmed  out ; and  though 
the  farmers  were  almost  ruined  by  their  contract,  the  King 
would  grant  them  no  remission.  His  wardrobe  consisted  of 
one  fine  gala  dress,  which  lasted  him  all  his  life  ; of  two  or 
three  old  coats  fit  for  Monmouth  Street,  of  yellow  waist- 
coats, soiled  with  snuff,  and  of  huge  boots  embrowned  by 
time.  One  taste  alone  sometimes  alluredhim  beyond  the 
limit  of  parsimony,  nay,  even  beyond  the'  limits  of  pru- 
dence, the  taste  for  building.  In  all  other  things  his  econ- 
omy was  such  as  we  might  call  by  a harsher  name,  if  we 
did  not  reflect  that  his  funds  were  drawn  from  a heavily 
taxed  people,  and  that  it  was  impossible  for  him,  without  ex- 
cessive tyranny  to  keep  up  at  once  a formidable  army  and 
& splendid  court. 

Considered  as  an  administrator,  Frederic  had  undoubt- 
edly many  titles  to  praise.  Order  was  strictly  maintained 
throughout  his  dominions.  Property  was  secure.  A great 
liberty  of  speaking  and  of  writing  was  allowed.  Confident 
in  the  irresistible  strength  derived  from  a great  army,  the 
King  looked  down  on  malcontents  and  libellers  with  a wise 
disdain ; and  gave  little  encouragement  to  spies  and  in- 
formers. When  he  was  told  of  the  disaffection  of  one  of 
his  subjects,  he  merely  asked,  ci  How  many  thousand  men 
can  he  bring  into  the  field?”  He  once  saw  a crowd  staring 
at  something  on  a wall.  He  rode  up,  and  found  that  the 
object  of  curiosity  was  a scurrilous  placard  against  himself. 
The  placard  had  been  posted  up  so  high  that  it  was  not 
easy  to  read  it.  Frederic  ordered  his  attendants  to  take  it 
down  and  put  it  lower.  “ My  people  and  I,”  he  said, 
“ have  come  to  an  agreement  which  satisfies  us  both*  They 


684  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

are  to  say  what  they  please,  and  I am  to  do  what  I please.’* 
No  person  would  have  dared  to  publish  in  London  satires 
on  George  the  Second  approaching  the  atrocity  of  those  sal- 
tires on  Frederic,  which  the  booksellers  of  Berlin  sold  with 
impunity.  One  bookseller  sent  to  the  palace  a copy  of  the 
most  stinging  lampoon  that  perhaps  was  ever  written  in  the 
world,  the  Memoirs  of  Voltaire,  published  by  Beaumar- 
chais, and  asked  for  his  majesty’s  orders.  “Do  not  adver 
tise  it  in  an  offensive  manner,”  said  the  King,  “ but  sell  it 
all  means.  I hope  it  will  pay  you  well.”  Even  among 
statesmen  accustomed  to  the  license  of  a free  press,  such 
steadfastness  of  mind  as  this  is  not  very  common. 

It  is  due  also  to  the  memory  of  Frederic  to  say  that  he 
earnestly  labored  to  secure  to  his  people  the  great  blessing 
of  cheap  and  speedy  justice.  He  was  one  of  the  first  rulers 
who  abolished  the  cruel  and  absurd  practice  of  torture. 
No  sentence  of  death,  pronounced  by  the  ordinary  tribunals, 
was  executed  without  his  sanction ; and  his  sanction,  ex- 
cept in  cases  of  murder,  was  rarely  given.  Towards  his 
troops  he  acted  in  a very  different  manner.  Military  of- 
fences were  punished  with  such  barbarous  scourging  that  to 
be  shot  was  considered  by  a Prussian  soldier  as  a secondary 
punishment.  Indeed,  the  principle  which  pervaded  Fred- 
eric’s whole  policy  was  this,  that  the  more  severely  the 
army  is  governed,  the  safer  it  is  to  treat  the  rest  of  the 
community  with  lenity. 

Religious  persecution  was  unknown  under  his  govern- 
ment, unless  some  foolish  and  unjust  restrictions  which  lay 
upon  the  Jews  may  be  regarded  as  forming  an  exception. 
His  policy  with  respect  to  the  Catholics  of  Silesia  presented 
an  honorable  contrast  to  the  policy  which,  under  very  simi- 
lar circumstances,  England  long  followed  with  respect  to  the 
Catholics  of  Ireland.  Every  form  of  religion  and  irreligion 
found  an  asylum  in  his  states.  The  scoffer  whom  the  par- 
liaments of  France  had  sentenced  to  a cruel  death,  was  con- 
soled by  a commission  in  the  Prussian  service.  The  Jesuit 
who  could  show  his  face  nowhere  else,  who  in  Britain  was 
still  subject  to  penal  laws,  who  was  proscribed  by  France, 
Spain,  Portugal,  and  Naples,  who  had  been  given  up  even 
by  the  Vatican,  found  safety  and  the  means  of  subsistence 
in  the  Prussian  dominions. 

Most  of  the  vices  of  Frederic’s  administration  resolve 
themselves  into  one  vice,  the  spirit  of  meddling.  The  in- 
defatigable activity  oi  his  intellect*  his  dictatorial  temper, 


"FREDERIC  THE  GREAT. 


685 


his  military  habits,  all  inclined  him  to  this  great  fault.  He 
drilled  his  people  as  he  drilled  his  grenadiers.  Capital  and  in- 
dustry were  diverted  from  their  natural  direction  by  a crowd 
of  preposterous  regulations.  There  was  a monopoly  of 
coffee,  a monopoly  of  tobacco,  a monopoly  of  refined  sugar. 
The  public  money,  of  which  the  King  was  generallyso  spar- 
ing, was  lavishly  spent  in  ploughing  bogs,  in  planting  mul- 
berry-trees amidst  the  sand,  in  bringing  sheep  from  Spain 
to  improve  the  Saxon  wool,  in  bestowing  prizes  for  fine 
yarn,  in  building  manufactories  of  procelain,  manufactories 
of  carpets,  manufactories  of  hardware,  manufactories  of 
lace.  Neither  the  experience  of  other  rulers,  nor  his  own 
could  ever  teach  him  that  something  more  than  an  edict 
and  a grant  of  public  money  was  required  to  create  a Lyons, 
a Brussels,  or  a Birmingham. 

For  his  commercial  policy,  however,  there  was  some  ex- 
cuse. He  had  on  his  side  illustrious  examples  and  popular 
prejudice.  Grievously  as  he  erred,  he  erred  in  company 
with  his  age.  In  other  departments  his  meddling  was  al- 
together without  ,apology.  He  interfered  with  the  course 
of  justice  as  well  as  with  the  course  of  trade  ; and  set  up  his 
own  crude  notions  of  equity  against  the  law  as  expounded 
by  the  unanimous  voice  of  the  gravest  magistrates.  It 
never  occurred  to  him  that  men  whose  lives  were  passed  in 
adjudicating  on  questions  of  civil  right  were  more  likely  to 
form  correct  opinions  on  such  questions  than  a prince  whose 
attention  was  divided  among  a thousand  objects,  and  who 
had  never  read  a law-book  through.  The  resistance  opposed 
to  him  by  the  tribunals  inflamed  him  to  fury,  lie  reviled 
his  Chancellor.  lie  kicked  the  shins  of  his  Judges.  He 
did  not,  it  is  true,  intend  to  act  unjustly.  He  firmly  be- 
lieved that  he  was  doing  right,  and  defending  the  cause  of 
the  poor  against  the  wealthy.  Yet  this  well-meant  med- 
dling probably  did  far  more  harm  than  all  the  explosions  of 
his  evil  passions  during  the  whole  of  his  long  reign.  We 
could  make  shift  to  live  under  a debauchee  or  a tyrant;  but 
to  be  ruled  by  a busy-body  is  more  than  human  nature  can 
bear. 

The  same  passion  for  directing  and  regulating  appeared 
in  every  part  of  the  King’s  policy.  Every  lad  of  a certain 
station  in  life  was  forced  to  go  to  certain  schools  within  the 
Prussian  dominions.  If  a young  Prussian  repaired,  though 
but  for  a few  weeks,  to  Leyden  or  Gottingen  for  the  pur- 
pose of  study,  the  offence  was  punished  with  civil  dis* 


686 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


abilities,  and  sometimes  with  the  confiscation  of  propertj. 
Nobody  was  to  travel  without  the  royal  permission.  If  tlr 
permission  were  granted,  the  pocket-money  of  the  tourist 
was  fixed  by  royal  ordinance.  A merchant  might  take  with 
him  two  hundred  and  fifty  rixdollars  in  gold,  a noble  wan 
allowed  to  take  four  hundred ; for  it  may  be  observed, k 
massing,  that  Frederic  studiously  kept  up  the  old  distinction 
between  the  nobles  and  the  community.  In  speculation,  1 
was  a French  philosopher,  but  in  action,  a German  prince 
He  talked  and  wrote  about  the  privileges  of  blood  in  the 
style  of  Sieyes ; but  in  practice  no  chapter  in  the  empire 
looked  with  a keener  eye  to  genealogies  and  cpiarterings. 

Such  was  Frederic  the  Ruler.  But  there  was  another 
Frederic,  the  Frederic  of  Rheinsberg,  the  fiddler  and  flute- 
player,  the  poetaster  and  metaphysician.  Amidst  the  cares 
of  state  the  King  had  retained  his  passion  for  music,  for 
reading,  for  writing,  for  literary  society.  To  these  amuse- 
ments he  devoted  all  the  time  that  he  could  snatch  from  the 
business  of  war  and  government;  and  perhaps  more  light  is 
thrown  on  his  character  by  wliat  passed  during  his  hours  of 
relaxation,  than  by  his  battles  or  his  laws. 

It  was  the  just  boast  of  Schiller  that,  in  his  country,  no 
Augustus,  no  Lorenzo,  had  watched  over  the  infancy  of 
poetry.  The  rich  and  energetic  language  of  Luther,  driven 
by  the  Latin  from  the  schools  of  pedants,  and  by  the  French 
from  the  palaces  of  kings,  had  taken  refuge  nmoru?  the  peo- 
ple. Of  the  powers  of  that  language  Frederic  had  no 
notion.  He  generally  spoke  of  it,  and  of  those  who  used  it, 
with  the  contempt  of  ignorance.  Ilis  library  consisted  of 
French  books;  at  his  table  nothing  was  heard  but  French 
conversation.  The  associates  of  his  hours  of  relaxation 
were,  for  the  most  part,  foreigners.  Britain  furnished  < < 
the  royal  circle  two  distinguished  men,  born  in  the  highest 
rank,  and  driven  by  civil  dissensions  from  the  land  to  which, 
under  happier  circumstances,  their  talents  and  virtues  might 
have  been  a source  of  strength  and  glory.  George  Keith, 
Earl  Maibchal  of  Scotland,  had  taken  arms  for  the  house  of 
Stuart  in  1715;  and  his  younger  brother  James,  then  omy 
seventeen  years  old,  had  fought  gallantly  by  his  side.  When 
ail  was  lost  they  retired  together  to  the  Continent,  roved 
from  country  to  country,  served  under  various  standards, 
and  so  bore  themselves  as  to  win  the  respect  and  good-will 
of  many  who  had  no  love  for  the  Jacobite  cause.  Their 
long  wanderings  terminated  at  Potsdam ; nor  had  Frederic 


Frederic  the  great. 


687 


any  associates  who  deserved  or  obtained  so  large  a share  of 
his  esteem.  They  were  not  only  accomplished  men,  hut 
nobles  and  warriors,  capable  of  serving  him  in  war  and 
diplomacy,  as  well  as  of  amusing  him  at  supper.  Alone  of 
all  his  companions  they  appear  never  to  have  had  reason  to 
complain  of  his  demeanor  towards  them.  Some  of  those 
who  knew  the  palace  best  pronounced  that  Lord  Marischal 
was  the  only  human  being  whom  Frederic  ever  really  loved. 

Italy  sent  to  the  parties  at  Potsdam  the  ingenious  and 
amiable  Algarotti,  and  Bastiani,  the  most  crafty,  cautious, 
and  servile  of  Abbes.  But  the  greater  part  of  the  society 
which  Frederic  had  assembled  round  him,  was  drawn  from 
France.  Maupertuis  had  acquired  some  celebrity  by  the 
journey  which  he  had  made  to  Lapland,  for  the  purpose  of 
ascertaining,  by  actual  measurement,  the  shape  of  our  planet. 
He  was  placed  in  the  chair  of  the  Academy  of  Berlin,  a 
humble  imitation  of  the  renowned  academy  of  Paris. 
Baculard  D’Arnaud,  a young  poet,  who  was  thought  to  have 
given  promise  of  great  things,  had  been  induced  to  quit  his 
country,  and  to  reside  at  the  Prussian  Court.  The  Mar- 
quess D’Argens  was  among  the  King’s  favorite  companions, 
on  account,  as  it  should  seem,  of  the  strong  opposition  be- 
tween their  characters.  The  parts  of  D’Argens  were  good, 
and  his  manners  those  of  a finished  French  gentleman ; but 
his  whole  soul  was  dissolved  in  sloth,  timidity,  and  self- 
indulgence.  His  was  one  of  that  abject  class  of  minds 
which  are  superstitious  without  being  religious.  Hating 
Christianity  with  a rancor  which  made  him  incapable  of 
rational  inquiry,  unable  to  see  in  the  harmony  and  beauty 
of  the  universe  the  traces  of  divine  power  and  wisdom,  he 
was  the  slave  of  dreams  and  omens,  would  not  sit  down  to 
table  with  thirteen  in  company,  turned  pale  if  the  salt  fell 
towards  him,  begged  his  guests  not  to  moss  their  knives  and 
forks  on  their  plates,  and  would  not  for  the  world  com- 
mence a journey  on  Friday.  His  health  was  a subject  of 
constant  anxiety  to  him.  Whenever  his  head  ached  or  his 
pulse  beat  quick,  his  dastardly  fears  and  effeminate  precau- 
tions were  the  jest  of  all  Berlin.  All  this  suited  the  King’s 
purpose  admirably.  He  wanted  somebody  by  whom  he 
might  be  amused,  and  whom  he  might  despise.  When  he 
wished  to  pass  half  an  hour  in  easy  polished  conversation, 
D’Argens  was  .an  excellent  companion  ; when  he  wanted  to 
vent  his  spleen  and  contempt,  D’Argens  was  an  excellent 
butt. 


888 


MACAUhAY*S  MSCELLANKOtrS  W&tfttfaft. 


With  these  associates,  and  others  of  the  same  class, 
Frederic  loved  to  spend  the  time  which  he  could  steal  from 
public  cares.  He  wished  his  supper-parties  to  be  gay  and 
easy.  He  invited  liis  guests  to  lay  aside  all  restraint,  and 
to  forget  that  he  was  at  the  head  of  a hundred  and  sixty 
thousand  soldiers,  and  was  absolute  master  of  the  life  and 
liberty  of  all  who  sat  at  meat  with  him.  There  was,  therefore, 
at  these  parties  the  outward  show  i ease.  The  and  learn- 
ing of  the  company  were  ostentatiously  displayed.  The  discus- 
sions on  history  and  literature  were  often  highly  interesting. 
But  the  absurdity  of  all  the  religion  known  among  men  was 
the  chief  topic  of  conversation ; and  the  audacity  with  which 
doctrines  and  names  venerated  throughout  Christendom 
were  treated  on  these  occasions  startled  even  persons  accus- 
tomed to  the  society  of  French  and  English  freethinkers. 
Real  liberty,  however,  or  real  affection,  was  in  this  brilliant 
society  not  to  be  found.  Absolute  kings  seldom  have 
friends  : and  Frederic’s  faults  were  such  as,  even  where  per- 
fect equality  exists,  made  friendship  exceedingly  precarious. 
He  had  indeed  many  qualities,  which,  on  a first  acquaint- 
ance, were  captivating.  His  conversation  was  lively;  his 
manners,  to  those  whom  he  desired  to  please,  were  even 
caressing.  No  man  could  flatter  with  more  delicacy.  No 
man  succeeded  more  completely  in  inspiring  those  who  ap- 
proached him  with  vague  hopes  of  some  great  advantage 
from  his  kindness.  But  under  this  fair  exterior  he  was  a 
tyrant,  suspicious,  disdainful,  and  malevolent.  He  had  one 
taste  which  may  be  pardoned  in  a boy,  but,  which  when 
habitually  and  deliberately  indulged  by  a man  of  mature  age 
and  strong  understanding,  is  almost  invariably  the  sign  of 
a bad  heart,  a taste  for  severe  practical  jokes.  If  a court- 
ier was  fond  of  dress,  oil  was  flung  over  his  richest  suit. 
If  he  was  fond  of  money,  some  prank  was  invented  to  make 
him  disburse  more  than  he  could  spare.  If  he  was  hypo- 
chrondriacal,  he  was  made  to  believe  that  he  had  the  dropsy. 
If  he  had  particularly  set  his  heart  on  visiting  a place,  a let- 
ter was  forged  to  frighten  him  from  g >ing  thither.  These 
things,  it  may  be  said,  are  trifles.  They  are  so ; but  they 
are  indications,  not  to  be  mistaken,  of  a nature  to  which  the 
sight  of  human  suffering  and  human  degradation  is  an 
agreeable  excitement. 

Frederic  had  a keen  eye  for  the  foibles  of  others,  and 
loved  to  communicate  his  discoveries.  He  had  some  talent 
for  sarcasm,  and  considerable  skill  in  detecting  the  sore 


taimeR V3  'rtrc  GmsAtf, 


places  where  sarcasm  would  be  most  acutely  felt.  Ilis  van- 
ity, as  well  as  his  malignity,  found  gratification  in  the  vex- 
ation and  confusion  of  those  who  smarted  under  his  caus- 
tic jests.  Yet  in  truth  his  success  on  these  occasions  be- 
longed quite  as  much  to  the  king  as  to  the  wit.  We  read 
that  Commodus  descended,  sword,  in  hand,  into  the  arena 
against  a wretched  gladiator,  armed  only  with  a foil  of  lead, 
and,  after  shedding  the  blood  of  the  helpless  victim,  struck 
medals  to  commemorate  the  inglorious  victory.  The  tri- 
umphs of  Frederic  in  the  war  of  repartee  were  of  much 
the  same  kind.  How  to  deal  with  him  was  the  most  puz- 
zling of  questions.  To  appear  constrained  in  his  presence 
was  to  disobey  his  commands,  and  to  spoil  his  amusement. 
Yet  if  his  associates  were  enticed  by  his  graciousness  to  in- 
dulge in  the  familiarity  of  a cordial  intimacy,  he  was  cer- 
tain to  make  them  repent  of  their  presumption  by  some 
cruel  humiliation.  To  resent  Ills  affronts  was  perilous;  yet 
not  to  resent  them  was  to  deserve  and  to  invite  them.  In 
his  view,  those  who  mutinied  were  insolent  and  ungrateful ; 
those  who  submitted  were  curs  made  to  receive  bones  and 
kickings  with  the  same  fawning  patience.  It  is,  indeed, 
difficult  to  conceive  how  anything  short  of  the  rage  of  hun- 
ger should  have  induced  men  to  bear  the  misery  of  being 
the  associates  of  the  Great  King.  It  was  no  lucrative  post. 
His  Majesty  was  as  severe  and  economical  in  his  friendships 
as  in  the  other  charges  of  his  establishment,  and  as  unlikely 
to  give  a rixdollar  too  much  for  his  guests  as  for  his  dinners. 
The  sum  which  he  allowed  to  a poet  or  a philosopher  was 
the  very  smallest  sum  for  which  such  poet  or  philosopher 
could  be  induced  to  sell  himself  into  slavery ; and  the  bonds- 
man might  think  himself  fortunate,  if  what  had  been  so 
grudgingly  given  was  not,  after  years  of  suffering,  rudely 
and  arbitrarily  withdrawn. 

Potsdam  was,  in  truth,  what  it  was  called  by  one  of  i Is 
most  illustrious  inmates,  the  Palace  of  Alcina.  At  the  first 
glance  it  seemed  to  be  a delightful  spot,  where  every  intel- 
lectual and  physical  enjoyment  awaited  the  happy  adven- 
turer. Every  new  comer  was  received  with  er ger  hospital- 
ity, intoxicated  with  flattery,  encouraged  to  expect  prosper- 
ity and  greatness.  It  was  in  vain  that  a long  succession  of 
favorites  who  had  entered  that  abode  with  delight  and  hope, 
and  who*  after  a short  term  of  delusive  happiness,  had  been 
doomed  to  expiate  their  folly  by  years  of  wretchedness  and 
degradation,  raised  their  voices  to  warn  the  aspirant  who 
Yol.  II.— Ji 


690  MACAULAY’S  miscellaneous  wettings. 

approached  the  charmed  threshold.  Some  had  wisdom 
enough  to  discover  the  truth  early,  and  spirit  enough  to  fly 
without  looking  back ; others  lingered  on  to  a cheerless  and 
unhonored  old  age.  We  have  no  hesitation  in  saying  that 
the  poorest  author  of  that  time  in  London,  sleeping  on  a 
bulk,  dining  in  a cellar,  with  a cravat  of  paper,  and  a skewei 
for  a shirt-pin,  was  a happier  man  than  any  of  the  literary 
inmates  of  Frederic’s  court. 

But  of  all  who  entered  the  enchanted  garden  in  the  ine- 
briation of  delight,  and  quitted  it  in  agonies  of  rage  and 
shame,  the  most  remarkable  was  Voltaire.  Many  circum- 
stances had  made  him  desirous  of  finding  a home  at  a dis- 
tance from  his  country.  His  fame  had  raised  him  up  ene- 
mies. His  sensibility  gave  them  a formidable  advantage 
over  him.  They,  were,  indeed,  contemptible  assailants.  Of 
all  that  they  wrote  against  him,  nothing  has  survived  except 
what  he  has  himself  preserved.  But  the  constitution  of  his 
mind  resembled  the  constitution  of  those  bodies  in  which 
the  slightest  scratch  of  a bramble,  or  the  bite  of  a gnat, 
never  fails  to  fester.  Though  his  reputation  was  rather 
raised  than  lowered  by  the  abuse  of  such  writers  as  Freron 
and  Desfontaines,  though  the  vengeance  which  he  took  on 
Freron  and  Desfontaines  were  such,  that  scourging,  brand- 
ing, pillorying,  would  have  been  a trifle  to  it,  there  is  rea- 
son to  believe  that  they  gave  him  far  more  pain  than  he 
ever  gave  them.  Though  he  enjoyed  during  his  own  life- 
time the  reputation  of  a classic,  though  he  was  extolled  by 
his  contemporaries  above  all  poets,  philosophers,  and  histo- 
rians, though  his  works  were  read  with  as  much  delight  and 
admiration  at  Moscow  and  Westminster,  at  Florence  and 
Stockholm,  as  at  Paris  itself,  he  was  yet  tormented  by  that 
restless  jealousy  which  should  seem  to  belong  only  to  minds 
burning  with  the  desire  of  *fame,  and  yet  conscious  of  im- 
potence. Td  men  of  letters  who  could  by  no  possibility  be 
his  rivals,  he  was,  if  they  behaved  well  to  him,  not  merely 
just,  not  merely  courteous,  but  often  a hearty  friend  and  a 
munificent  benefactor.  But  to  every  writer  who  rose  to  a 
celebrity  approaching  his  own,  he  became  either  a disguised 
or  an  avowed  enemy.  He  slyly  depreciated  Montesquieu 
.ind  Buffon.  He  publicly,  and  with  violent  outrage,  m^do 
war  on  Rousseau.  Nor  had  he  the  art  of  hiding  his  feelings 
under  the  semblance  of  good  humor  or  of  contempt.  With 
all  his  great  talents,  and  all  his  long  experience  of  the  world, 
he  had  no  more  self-command  than  a petted  child  or  a hyfter. 


FREDERIC  THE  GREAT. 


691 


leal  woman.  Whenever  he  was  mortified,  he  exhausted  the 
whole  rhetoric  of  anger  and  sorrow  to  express  his  mortifica- 
tion. His  torrents  of  bitter  words,  his  stamping  and  curs- 
ing, his  grimaces  and  his  tears  of  rage,  were  a rich  feast  to 
those  abject  natures,  whose  delight  is  in  the  agonies  of  pow- 
erful spirits  and  in  the  abasement  of  immortal  names 
These  creatures  had  now  found  out  a way  of  galling  him  to 
the  very  quick.  In  one  walk,  at  least,  it  had  been  admitted 
by  envy  itself  that  he  was  without  a living  competitor. 
Since  Racine  had  been  laid  among  the  great  men  whose  dust 
made  the  holy  precinct  of  Port  Royal  holier,  no  tragic  poet 
had  appeared  who  could  contest  the  palm  with  the  author  of 
Zaire,  of  Alzire,  and  of  Merope.  At  length  a rival  was  an- 
nounced. Old  Crebillon,  who,  many  years  before,  had  ob- 
tained some  theatrical  success,  and  who  had  long  been  for- 
gotten, came  forth  from  his  garret  in  one  of  the  meanest 
lanes  near  the  Rue  St.  Antoine,  and  was  welcomed  by  the 
acclamations  of  envious  men  of  letters,  and  of  a capricious 
populace.  A thing  called  Catiline,  which  he  had  written  in 
his  retirement,  was  acted  with  boundless  applause.  Of  this 
execrable  piece  it  is  sufficient  to  say,  that  the  plot  turns  on 
a love  affair,  carried  on  in  all  the  forms  of  Scudery,  between 
Catiline,  whose  confidant  is  the  Praetor  Lentulus,  and  Tullia, 
the  daughter  of  Cicero.  The  theatre  resounded  with  ac- 
clamations. The  king  pensioned  the  successful  poet ; and 
the  coffee-houses  pronounced  that  Yoltaire  was  a clever 
man,  but  that  the  real  tragic  inspiration,  the  celestial  fire 
which  had  glowed  in  Corneille  and  Racine,  was  to  be  found 
in  Crebillon  alone. 

The  blow  went  to  Voltaire’s  heart.  Had  his  wisdom 
and  fortitude  been  in  proportion  to  the  fertility  of  his  intel- 
lect, and  to  the  brilliancy  of  his  wit,  he  would  have  seen 
that  it  was  out  of  the  power  of  all  the  puffers  and  detract- 
ors in  Europe  to  put  Catiline  above  Zaire ; but  he  had  none 
of  the  magnanimous  patience  with  which  Milton  and 
Bentley  left  their  claims  to  the  unerring  judgment  cf  time, 
lie  eagerly  engaged  in  an  undignified  competition  W' th  Cro- 
billon,  and  produced  a series  of  plays  on  the  same  sabjecta 
which  his  rival  had  treated.  These  pieces  were  coolly  re- 
ceived. Angry  with  the  court,  angry  with  the  capital,  Vol- 
taire began  to  find  pleasii'*^  in  the  prospect  of  exile.  His 
attachment  for  Madame  du  Chatelet  long  prevented  him 
from  executing  his  purpose.  Her  death  set  him  at  liberty; 
he  determined  to  take  refuge  at  Berlin, 


692  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

To  Berlin  he  was  invited  by  a series  of  letters,  couched 
in  terms  of  the  most  enthusiastic  friendship  and  admiration. 
For  once  the  rigid  parsimony  of  Frederic  seemed  to  have 
relaxed.  Orders,  honorable  offices,  a liberal  j^ension,  a well- 
served  table,  stately  apartments  under  a royal  roof,  were 
offered  in  return  for  the  pleasure  and  honor  which  were 
expected  from  the  society  of  the  first  wit  of  the  age.  A 
thousand  louis  were  remitted  for  the  charges  of  the  journey. 
No  ambassador  setting  out  from  Berlin  for  a court  of  the 
first  rank,  had  ever  been  more  amply  supplied.  But  Vol- 
taire was  not  satisfied]  At  a later  period,  when  he  pos- 
sessed an  ample  fortune,  he  was  one  of  the  most  liberal  of 
men  ; but  till  his  means  had  become  equal  to  his  wishes,  his 
greediness  for  lucre  was  unrestrained  either  by  justice  or  by 
shame.  He  had  the  effrontery  to  ask  a thousand  louis  more, 
in  order  to  enable  him  to  bring  his  niece,  Madame  Denis, 
the  ugliest  of  coquettes,  in  his  company.  The  indelicate 
rapacity  of  the  poet  produced  its  natural  effect  on  the  severe 
and  frugal  King.  The  answer  was  a dry  refusal.  “ I did 
not,”  said  his  Majesty,  “ solicit  the  honor  of  the  lady’s 
society.”  On  this  Voltaire  went  off  into  a paroxysm  of 
childish  rage.  “ W as  there  ever  such  avarice  ? He  has 
hundreds  of  tubs  full  of  dollars  in  his  vaults,  and  haggles 
with  me  about  a poor  thousand  louis.”  It  seemed  that  the 
negotiation  would  be  broken  off ; but  Frederic,  with  great 
dexterity,  affected  indifference,  and  seemed  inclined  to 
transfer  his  idolatry  to  Baculard  D’Arnaud.  His  Majesty 
even  wrote  some  bad  verses,  of  which  the  sense  was,  that 
Voltaire  was  a setting  sun,  and  that  D’Arnaud  was  rising. 
Good-natured  friends  soon  carried  the  lines  to  Voltaire. 
He  was  in  his  bed.  He  jumped  out  in  his  shirt,  danced 
about  the  room  with  rage,  and  sent  for  his  passport  and  his 
post-horses.  It  was  not  difficult  to  foresee  the  end  of  a 
connection  which  had  such  a beginning. 

It  was  in  the  year  1750  that  Voltaire  left  the  great  capi- 
tal, which  he  was  not  to  see  again  till,  after  the  lapse  of  near 
thirty  years,  he  returned,  bowed  down  by  extreme  old  age, 
t > die  in  the  midst  of  a splendid  and  ghastly  triumph.  His 
reception  in  Prussia  was  such  as  might  well  have  elated  a 
less  vain  and  excitable  mind.  He  wrote  to  his  friends  at 
Paris,  that  the  kindness  and  the  attention  with  which  he  had 
been  welcomed  surpassed  description,  that  the  King  was  the 
most  amiable  of  men,  that  Potsdam  was  the  paradise  of 
philosophers.  He  was  created  chamberlain,  and  received, 


FREDERIC  THE  GREAT. 


693 


together  with  his  gold  key,  the  cross  of  an  order,  and  a 
patent  ensuring  to  him  a pension  of  eight  hundred  pounds 
sterling  a year  for  life.  A hundred  and  sixty  pounds  a year 
were  promised  to  his  niece  if  she  survived  him.  The  royal 
cooks  and  coachmen  were  put  at  his  disposal.  He  was 
lodged  in  the  same  apartments  in  which  Saxe  had  lived, 
when,  at  the  height  of  power  and  glory,  he  visited  Prussia. 
Frederic,  indeed,  stooped  for  a time  ^even  to  use  the  lan- 
guage of  adulation,  lie  pressed  to  his  lips  the  meagre 
hand  of  the  little  grinning  skeleton,  whom  he  regarded  as 
the  dispenser  of  immortal  renown.  He  would  add,  he  said, 
to  the  titles  which  he  owed  to  his  ancestors  and  his  sword, 
another  title,  derived  from  his  last  and  proudest  acquisition. 
His  style  should  run  thus  : — Frederic,  King  of  Prussia, 
Margrave  of  Brandenburg,  Sovereign  Duke  of  Silesia,  Pos- 
sessor of  Yoltaire.  But  even  amidst  the  delights  of  the 
honeymoon,  Y oltaire’s  sensitive  vanity  began  to  take  alarm. 
A few  days  after  his  arrival,  he  could  not  help  telling  his 
niece  that  the  amiable  King  had  a trick  of  giving  a sly 
scratch  with  one  hand,  while  patting  and  stroking  with  the 
other.  Soon  came  hints  not  the  less  alarming,  because 
mysterious.  “ The  supper  parties  are  delicious.  The  King 
is  the  life  of  the  company.  But — I have  operas  and  com- 
edies, reviews  and  concerts,  my  studies  and  books.  But — 
but — Berlin  is  fine,  the  princesses  charming,  the  maids  of 
honor  handsome.  But  — 

This  eccentric  friendship  was  fast  cooling.  Never  had 
there  met  two  persons  so  exquisitely  fitted  to  plague  each 
other.  Each  of  them  had  exactly  the  fault  of  which  the 
other  was  most  impatient ; and  they  were,  indifferent  ways, 
the  most  impatient  of  mankind.  Frederic  was  frugal,  almost 
niggardly.  When  he  had  secured  his  plaything  he  began  to 
think  that  he  had  bought  it  too  dear.  V oltaire,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  greedy,  even  to  the  extent  of  impudence  and 
knavery ; and  conceived  that  the  favorite  of  a monarch  who 
had  barrels  full  of  gold  and  silver  laid  up  in  cellars  ought  to 
make  a f ortune  which  a receiver-general  might  envy.  They 
soon  discovered  each  other’s  feelings.  Both  were  angry* 
and  a war  began,  in  which  Frederic  stooped  to  the  pan 
Harpagon,  and  Voltaire  to  that  of  S'wdn.  It  is  humiliating 
to  relate,  that  the  great  warrior  ar.d  statesman  gave  orders 
that  his  guest’s  allowance  of  sugar  and  chocolate  should  be 
curtailed.  It  is,  if  possible,  a still  more  humiliating  fact, 
that  Yoltaire  indemnified  himself  by  pocketing  the  wax-can- 


694  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

dies  in  the  royal  antechamber.  Disputes  about  money,  how. 
ever,  were  not  the  most  serious  disputes  of  these  extraor* 
dinary  associates.  The  sarcasms  of  the  King  soon  galled 
the  sensitive  temper  of  the  poet.  D’  Arnaud  and  D’  Argens, 
Guichard  and  La  Metrie,  might,  for  the  sake  of  a morsel  of 
bread,  be  willing  to  bear  the  insolence  of  a master;  but 
Voltaire  was  of  another  order.  He  knew  that  he  was  a 
potentate  as  well  as  Frederic,  that  his  European  reputation, 
and  his  incomparable  power  of  covering  whatever  he  hated 
with  ridicule,  made  him  an  object  of  dread  even  to  the  leaders 
of  armies  and  the  rulers  of  nations.  In  truth,  of  all  the  in- 
tellectual weapons  which  have  ever  been  wielded  by  man, 
the  most  terrible  was  the  mockery  of  Voltaire.  Bigots  and 
tyrants,  who  had  never  been  moved  by  the  wailing  and 
cursing  of  millions,  turned  pale  at  his  name.  Principles 
unassailable  by  reason,  principles  which  had  withstood  the 
fiercest  attacks  of  power,  the  most  valuable  truths,  the  most 
generous  sentiments,  the  noblest  and  most  graceful  images, 
the  purest  reputations,  the  most  august  institutions,  began 
to  look  mean  and  loathsome  as  soon  as  that  withering  smile 
was  turned  upon  them.  To  every  opponent,  however  strong 
in  his  cause  and  his  talents,  in  his  station  and  his  character, 
who  ventured  to  encounter  the  great  scoffer,  might  be 
addressed  the  caution  which  was  given  of  old  to  the 
Archangel : — 

“ I forewarn  thee,  shun 
His  deadly  arrow  ; neither  vainly  hope 
To  be  invulnerable  in  those  bright  arms 
Though  tempered  heavenly  ; for  that  fatal  dint, 

Save  Him  who  reigns  above,  none  can  resist/ * 

We  cannot  pause  to  recount  how  often  that  rare  talent 
was  exercised  against  rivals  worthy  of  esteem  ; how  often 
it  was  used  to  crush  and  torture  enemies  worthy  only  of 
silent  disdain ; how  often  it  was  perverted  to  the  more  nox- 
ious purpose  of  destroying  the  last  solace  of  earthly  misery, 
and  the  last  restraint  on  earthly  power.  Neither  can  we 
pause  to  tell  how  often  it  was  used  to  vindicate  justice,  hu- 
manity, and  toleration,  the  principles  of  sound  philosophy, 
the  principles  of  free  government.  This  is  not  the  place  for 
a full  character  of  Voltaire. 

Causes  of  quarrel  multiplied  fast.  Voltaire,  who,  partly 
from  love  of  money,  and  partly  from  love  of  excitement,  was 
always  fond  of  stockjobbing,  became  implicated  in  transac- 
tions of  at  least  a dubious  character.  The  King  was  de 


FREDERIC  THE  GREAT. 


69b 


lighted  at  having  such  an  opportunity  to  humble  his  guest 
and  bitter  reproaches  and  complaints  were  exchanged. 
V oltaire,  too,  was  soon  at  war  with  the  c ther  men  of  letters 
who  surrounded  the  King ; and  this  irritated  Frederic,  who, 
however,  had  himself  chiefly  to  blame  : for,  from  that  love 
of  tormenting  which  was  in  him  a ruling  passion,  he  per-, 
petually  lavished  extravagant  praises  on  small  men  and  bad 
books,  merely  in  order  that  he  might  enjoy  the  mortification 
and  rage  which  on  such  occasions  Voltaire  took  no  pains 
to  conceal.  His  majesty,  however,  soon  had  reason  to  re- 
gret the  pains  which  he  had  taken  to  kindle  jealousy  among 
the  members  of  his  household.  The  whole  palace  was  in  a 
ferment  with  literary  intrigues  and  cabals.  It  was  to  no 
purpose  that  the  imperial  voice,  which  kept  a hundred  and 
sixty  thousand  soldiers  in  order,  was  raised  to  quiet  the 
contention  of  the  exasperated  wits.  It  was  far  easier  to 
stir  up  such  a storm  than  to  lull  it.  Nor  was  Frederic,  in 
his  capacity  of  wit,  by  any  means  without  his  own  share  of 
vexations.  He,  had  sent  a large  quantity  of  verses  to  Y ol- 
taire, and  requested  that  they  might  be  returned  with  marks 
and  corrections.  “ See,”  exclaimed  Voltaire,  “ what  a 
quantity  of  his  dirty  linen  the  King  has  sent  me  to  wash  ! ” 
Tale-bearers  were  not  wanting  to  carry  the  sarcasm  to  the 
royal  ear ; and  Frederic  was  as  much  incensed  as  a Grub 
Street  writer  who  had  found  his  name  in  the  Dunciad. 

This  could  not  last.  A circumstance  which,  when  the 
mutual  regard  of  the  friends  was  in  its  first  glow,  would 
merely  have  been  matter  for  laughter,  produced  a violent 
explosion.  Maupertuis  enjoyed  as  much  of  Frederic’s  good 
will  as  any  man  of  letters.  He  was  President  of  the  Academy 
of  Berlin  ; and  he  stood  second  to  Voltaire,  though  at  an 
immense  distance,  in  the  literary  society  which  had  been 
assembled  at  the  Prussian  court.  Frederic  had,  by  playing 
for  his  own  amusement  on  the  feelings  of  the  two  jealous 
and  vainglorious  Frenchmen,  succeeded  in  producing  a bitter 
enmity  between  them.  Voltaire  resolved  to  set  his  mark,  a 
mark  never  to  be  effaced,  on  the  forehead  of  Maupertuis, 
and  wrote  the  exquisitely  ludicrous  Diatribe  of  Doctor 
Akakia.  He  showed  this  little  piece  to  Frederic,  who  had 
too  much  taste  and  too  much  malice  not  to  relish  such  deli- 
cious pleasantry.  In  truth,  even  at  this  time  of  day,  it  is 
not  easy  for  any  person  who  has  the  least  perception  of  the 
ridiculous  to  read  the  jokes  of  the  Latin  city,  the  Patagonians, 
and  the  hole  to  the  centre  of  the  earth,  without  laughing  till 


696  macauxay’s  MtscEt.?, h':vrw  wnmsrad. 

he  cries.  But  though  Frederic  was  diverted  by  this  charm- 
ing pasquinade,  he  was  unwilling  that  it  should  get  abroad. 
His  self-love  was  interested.  He  had  selected  Maupertuis 
to  fill  the  chair  of  his  Academy.  If  all  Europe  were  taught 
to  laugh  at  Maupertuis,  would  not  the  reputation  of  the 
Academy,  would  not  even  the  dignity  of  its  royal  patron, 
be  in  some  degree  compromised  ? The  King,  therefore, 
begged  Voltaire  to  suppress  this  performance.  Voltaire 
promised  to  do  so,  and  broke  his  word.  The  Diatribe  was 
published,  and  received  with  shouts  of  merriment  and 
applause  by  all  who  could  read  the  French  language.  The 
King  stormed.  Voltaire,  with  his  usual  disregard  of  truth, 
asserted  his  innocence,  and  made  up  some  lie  about  a printer 
or  an  amanuensis.  The  King  was  not  to  be  so  imposed 
upon.  He  ordered  the  pamphlet  to  be  burned  by  the 
common  hangman,  and  insisted  upon  having  an  apology 
from  Voltaire,  couched  in  the  most  abject  terms.  Voltaire 
sent  back  to  the  King  his  cross,  his  key,  and  the  patent  of 
his  pension.  After  this  burst  of  rage,  the  strange  pair  began 
to  be  ashamed  of  their  violence,  and  went  through  the  forms 
of  reconciliation.  But  the  breach  was  irreparable  ; and 
Voltaire  took  his  leave  of  Frederic  for  ever.  They  parted 
with  cold  civility  ; but  their  hearts  were  big  with  resent- 
ment. Voltaire  had  in  his  keeping  a volume  of  the  King’s 
poetry,  and  forgot  to  return  it.  This  was,  we  believe, 
merely  one  of  the  oversights  which  men  setting  out  upon  a 
journey  often  commit.  That  Voltaire  could  have  meditated 
plagiarism  is  quite  incredible.  He  would  not,  we  are 
confident,  for  the  half  of  Frederic’s  kingdom,  have  consented 
to  father  Frederic’s  verses.  The  King,  however,  who  rated 
his  own  writings  much  above  their  value,  and  who  was 
inclined  to  see  all  Voltaire’s  actions  in  the  worst  light,  was 
enraged  to  think  that  his  favorite  compositions  were  in  the 
hands  of  an  enemy,  as  thievish  as  a daw  and  as  mischievous 
as  a monkey.  In  the  anger  excited  by  this  thought,  he  lost 
sight  of  reason  and  decency,  and  determined  on  committing 
an  outrage  at  once  odious  and  ridiculous. 

Voltaire  had  reached  Frankfort.  His  niece,  Madame 
Denis,  came  thither  to  meet  him.  He  concieved  himself 
secure  from  the  power  of  his  late  master,  when  he  was  ar* 
rested  by  order  of  the  Prussian  resident.  The  precious 
volume  was  delivered  up.  But  the  Prussian  agents  had,  no' 
doubt,  been  instructed  not  to  let  Voltaire  escape  without 
some  gross  indignity.  He  was  confined  twelve  days  in  i 


FREDERIC  THE  GREAT. 


6y7 


wretched  hovel.  Sentinels  with  fixed  bayonet?  kept  guard 
over  him.  His  niece  was  dragged  through  the  mire  by  the 
soldiers.  Sixteen  hundred  dollars  were  extorted  from  him 
by  his  insolent  jailers.  It  is  absurd  to  say  that  this  out 
rage  is  not  to  be  attributed  to  the  King.  Was  anybody 
punished  for  it?  Was  anybody  called  in  question  for  it? 
Was  it  not  consistent  with  Frederic’s  character?  Was 
it  not  of  a piece  wdth  his  conduct  on  other  similar  occasions  ? 
Is  it  not  notorious  that  he  repeatedly  gave  private  direc- 
tions to  his  officers  to  pillage  and  demolish  the  houses  of 
persons  against  whom  he  had  a grudge,  charging  them  at 
the  same  time  to  take  their  measures  in  such  a way  that  his 
name  might  not  be  compromised  ? He  acted  thus  towards 
Count  Bruhl  in  the  Seven  Tears’  War.  Why  should  we 
believe  that  he  would  have  been  more  scrupulous  with  re- 
gard to  Y oltaire  ? 

When  at  length  the  illustrious  prisoner  regained  his 
liberty,  the  prospect  before  him  wms  but  dreary.  He  was 
an  exile  both  from  the  country  of  his  birth  and  from  the  coun- 
try of  his  adoption.  The  French  government  had  taken 
offence  at  his  journey  to  Prussia,  and  would  not  permit  him 
to  return  to  Paris ; and  in  the  vicinity  of  Prussia  it  was  not 
safe  for  him  to  remain. 

He  took  refuge  on  the  beautiful  shores  of  Lake  Leman. 
There,  loosed  from  every  tie  which  had  hitherto  restrained 
him,  and  having  little  to  hope  or  to  fear  from  courts  and 
churches,  he  began  his  long  wTar  against  all  that,  whether 
for  good  or  evil,  had  authority  over  man  ; for  what  Burke 
fvaid  of  the  Constituent  Assembly,  wrns  eminently  true  of 
this  its  great  forerunner  : V oltaire  could  not  build  : he  could 
only  pull  down  ; he  was  the  very  Vitruvius  of  ruin.  He  has 
bequeathed  to  us  not  a single  doctrine  to  be  called  by  his 
name,  not  a single  addition  to  the  stock  of  our  positive 
knowledge.  But  no  human  teacher  ever  left  behind  him  so 
vast  and  terrible  a wreck  of  truths  and  falsehoods,  of  things 
noble  and  things  base,  of  things  useful  and  things  pernicious. 
From  the  time  when  his  sojourn  beneath  the  Alps  commenced, 
the  dramatist,  the  wit,  the  historian,  was  merged  in  a more 
important  character.  He  was  now  the  patriarch,  the  founder 
of  a sect,  the  chief  of  a conspiracy,  the  prince  of  a wiao 
intellectual  commonwealth.  He  often  enjoyed  a pleasure 
dear  to  the  better  part  of  his  nature,  the  pleasure  oi 
vindicating  innocence  which  had  no  other  helper,  of  repair- 
ing cruel  wrongs*  of  punishing  tyranny  in  high  pl&m 


698  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings* 

had  also  the  satisfaction,  not  less  acceptable  to  his  ravenous 
vanity,  of  hearing  terrified  Capuchins  call  him  the  Antichrist. 
But  whether  employed  in  works  of  benevolence,  or  in  works 
of  mischief,  he  never  forgot  Potsdam  and  Frankfort ; and  he 
listened  anxiously  to  every  murmur  which  indicated  that  a 
tempest  was  gathering  in  Europe,  and  that  his  vengeance 
was  at  hand. 

lie  soon  had  his  wish.  Maria  Theresa  had  never  for  a 
moment  forgotten  the  great  wrong  which  she  had  received 
at  the  hand  of  Frederic.  Young  and  delicate,  just  left  an 
orphan,  just  about  to  be  a mother,  she  had  been  compelled 
to  fly  from  the  ancient  capital  of  her  race ; she  had  seen  her 
fair  inheritance  dismembered  by  robbers,  and  of  those  rob- 
bers he  had  been  the  foremost.  Without  a pretext,  without 
a provocation  in  defiance  of  the  most  sacred  engagements., 
he  had  attacked  the  helpless  ally  whom  he  was  bound  to 
defend.  The  Empress  Queen  had  the  faults  as  well  as  the 
virtues  which  are  connected  with  quick  sensibility  and  a 
high  spirit.  There  was  no  peril  which  she  wTas  not  ready 
to  brave,  no  calamity  which  she  was  not  ready  to  bring  on 
her  subjects,  or  on  the  whole  human  race,  if  only  she  might 
once  taste  the  sweetness  of  a complete  revenge.  Revenge, 
too,  presented  itself,  to  her  narrow  and  superstitious  mind, 
in  the  guise  of  duty.  Silesia  had  been  wrested  not  only 
from  the  House  of  Austria,  but  from  the  Church  of  Rome. 
The  conqueror  had  indeed  permitted  his  new  subjects  to 
worship  God  after  their  own  fashion ; but  this  was  not 
enough.  To  bigotry  it  seemed  an  intolerable  hardship  that 
the  Catholic  Church,  having  long  enjoyed  ascendency,  should 
be  compelled  to  content  itself  with  equality.  Nor  was  this 
the  only  circumstance  which  led  Maria  Theresa  to  regard  her 
enemy  as  the  enemy  of  God.  The  profaneness  of  Frederic’s 
writings  and  conversation,  and  the  frightful  rumors  which 
were  circulated  respecting  the  immorality  of  his  private  life, 
naturally  shocked  a woman  who  believed  with  the  firmest 
faith  all  that  her  confessor  told  her,  and  who,  though  sur- 
rounded by  temptations,  though  young  and  beautiful,  though 
ardent  in  all  her  passions,  though  possessed  of  absolute 
power,  had  preserved  her  fame  unsullied  even  by  the  breath 
of  slander. 

To  recover  Silesia,  to  humble  the  dynasty  of  Hohen- 
zollern  to  the  dust,  was  the  great  object  of  her  life.  She 
toiled  during  many  years  for  this  end,  with  zeal  as  indefati 
gable  as  that  which  the  poet  ascribes  to  the  stately  godded 


tfRTCBETtfC!  THE  GTtKAT. 


699 


who  tired  out  her  immortal  horses  in  the  work  of  raisins 
the  nations  against  Troy,  and  who  offered  to  give  up  t(i 
destruction  her  darling  Sparta  and  Mycenae,  if  only  shv 
might  once  see  the  smoke  goingup  from  the  palace  of  Priam. 
With  even  such  a spirit  did  the  proud  Austrian  Juno  strive 
to  array  against  her  for  a coalition  such  as  Europe  had  never 
seen.  Nothing  would  content  her  but  that  the  whole 
civilized'world,  from  the  White  Sea  to  the  Adriatic,  from 
the  Bay  of  Biscay  to  the  pastures  of  the  wild  horses  of 
th  3 Tanais,  should  be  combined  in  arms  against  one  petty 
state. 

She  early  succeeded  by  various  arts  in  obtaining  the 
adhesion  of  Russia.  An  ample  share  of  soil  was  promised 
to  the  King  of  Poland ; and  that  prince,  governed  by  his 
favorite,  Count  Bruhl,  readily  promised  the  assistance  of 
' the  Saxon  forces.  The  great  difficulty  was  with  France. 
That  the  Houses  of  Bourbon  and  of  Hapsburg  should  ever 
cordially  co-operate  in  any  great  scheme  of  European  policy, 
had  long  been  thought,  to  use  the  strong  expression  of 
Frederic,  just  as  impossible  as  that  fire  and  water  should 
amalgamate.  The  whole  history  of  the  Continent,  during 
two  centuries  and  a half,  have  been  the  history  of  the  mutual 
jealousies  and  enmities  of  France  and  Austria.  Since  the 
administration  of  Richelieu,  above  all,  it  had  been  con- 
sidered as  the  plain  policy  of  the  Most  Christian  King  to 
thwart  on  all  occasions  the  Court  of  Vienna,  and  to  protect 
every  member  of  the  Germanic  body  who  stood  up  against 
the  dictation  of  the  Caesars.  Common  sentiments  of  re- 
ligion had  been  unable  to  mil  .gate  this  strong  antipathy. 
The  rulers  of  France,  even  while  clothed  in  the  Roman 
purple,  even  while  persecuting  the  heretics  of  Rochelle  and 
Auvergne,  had  still  looked  with  favor  on  the  Lutheran  and 
Calvinistic  princes  who  were  struggling  against  the  chief  of 
tin  empire.  If  the  French  ministers  paid  any  respect  to  the 
traditional  rules  handed  down  to  them  through  many  gen- 
erations, they  would  have  acted  towards  Frederic  as  the 
greatest  of  their  predecessors  acted  towards  Gustavus  Adol- 
phus. That  there  was  deadly  enmity  between  Prussia  and 
Austria  was  of  itself  a sufficient  reason  for  close  friendship 
between  Prussia  and  France.  With  France  Frederic  could 
never  have  any  serious  controversy.  His  territories  were 
so  situated  that  his  ambition,  greedy  and  unscrupulous  as 
it  was,  could  never  impel  him  to  attack  her  of  his  own 
accord.  He  was  more  than  half  a Frenchman  ; he  wrote* 


ioo 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


spoke,  read  nothing  but  French  : he  delighted  in  French  so* 
ciety : the  admiration  of  the  French  he  proposed  to  himself 
as  the  best  reward  of  all  his  exploits*  It  seemed  incredible 
that  any  French  government,  however  notorious  for  levity 
or  stupidity,  could  spurn  away  such  anally. 

The  Court  of  Vienna,  however,  did  not  despair.  The 
Austrian  diplomatists  propounded  a new  scheme  of  politics, 
which  it  must  be  owned,  was  not  altogether  without  plausi- 
bility. The  great  powers,  according  to  this  theory,  had 
long  been  under  a delusion.  They  had  looked  on  each  other 
as  natural  enemies,  while  in  truth  they  were  natural  allies^ 
A succession  of  cruel  wars  had  devastated  Europe,  had 
thinned  the  population,  had  exhausted  the  public  resources, 
had  loaded  governments  with  an  immense  burden  of  debt ; 
and  when,  after  two  hundred  years  of  murderous  hostility  or 
of  hollow  truce,  the  illustrious  Houses  whose  enmity  had 
distracted  the  world  sat  down  to  count  their  gains,  to  what 
did  the  real  advantage  on  either  side  amount?  Simply 
to  this,  that  they  had  kept  each  other  from  thriving.  It  was 
not  the  King  of  France,  it  was  not  the  Emperor,  who  had 
reaped  the  fruits  of  the  Thirty  Years’  War,  or  of  the  War 
of  the  Pragmatic  Sanction.  Those  fruits  had  been  pilfered 
by  states  of  the  second  and  third  rank,  which,  secured  against 
jealousy  by  their  insignificance,  had  dexterously  aggrandized 
themselves  while  pretending  to  serve  the  animosity  of  the 
great  chiefs  of  Christendom.  While  the  lion  and  tiger  were 
tearing  each  other,  the  jackal  had  run  off  into  the  jungle  with 
the  prey.  The  real  gainer  by  the  Thirty  Years’  War  had 
been  neither  France  nor  Austria,  but  Sweden.  The  real 
gainer  by  the  war  of  the  Pragmatic  Sanction  had  been  neither 
France  nor  Austria,  but  the  upstart  of  Brandenburg.  France 
had  made  great  efforts,  had  added  largely  to  her  military 
glory,  and  largely  to  her  public  burden  ; and  for  what  end  ? 
Merely  that  Frederic  might  rule  Silesia.  For  this  and  this 
alone  one  French  army,  wasted  by  sword  and  famine,  had 
perished  in  Bohemia  ; and  another  had  purchased,  with  floods 
of  the  noblest  blood,  the  barren  glory  of  Fontenoy.  And 
this  prince,  for  whom  France  had  suffered  so  much,  was  he 
a grateful,  was  he  even  an  honest  ally?  Had  he  not  been 
as  false  to  the  Court  of  Versailles  as  to  the  Court  of  Vienna  ? 
Had  he  not  played,  on  a large  scale,  the  same  part  which,  in 
private  life,  is  played  by  the  vile  agent  of  chicane  who  sets 
his  neighbors  quarrelling,  involves  them  in  costly  and  in- 
terminable litigation,  and  betrays  them  to  each  other  all 


THE  GREAT, 


701 


round,  certain  that,  whoever  may  be  ruined,  he  shall  be  em 
riched  ? Surely  the  true  wisdom  of  the  great  powers  was 
to  attack,  not  each  other,  but  this  common  barrator,  who, 
by  inflaming  the  passions  of  both,  by  pretending  to  serve 
both,  and  by  deserting  both,  had  raised  himself  above  the 
station  to  which  he  was  born.  The  great  object  of  Austria 
was  to  regain  Silesia ; the  great  object  of  France  was  to 
obtain  an  accession  of  territory  on  the  side  of  Flanders.  If 
they  took  opposite  sides,  the  result  would  probably  be  that, 
afler  a war  of  many  years,  after  the  slaughter  of  many 
thousands  of  brave  men,  after  the  waste  of  many  millions 
of  crowns,  they  would  lay  down  their  arms  without  having 
achieved  either  object;  but,  if  they  came  to  an  understand- 
ing, there  would  be  no  risk,  and  no  difficulty.  Austria 
would  willingly  make  in  Belgium  such  cessions  as  France, 
could  not  expect  to  obtain  by  ten  pitched  battles.  Silesia 
would  easily  be  annexed  to  the  monarchy  of  which  it  had  long 
been  a part.  The  union  of  two  such  powerful  goverments 
would  at  once  overawe  the  King  of  Prussia.  If  he  resisted, 
one  short  campaign  would  settle  his  fate.  France  and 
Austria,  long  accustomed  to  rise  from  the  game  of  war  both 
losers,  would,  for  the  first  time,  both  be  gainers.  There  could 
be  no  room  for  jealousy  between  them.  The  power  of  both 
would  be  increased  at  once  ; the  equilibrium  between  them 
would  be  preserved  ; and  the  only  sufferer  would  be  a mis- 
chievous and  unprincipled  buccaneer,  who  deserved  no  ten- 
derness from  either. 

These  doctrines,  attractive  from  their  novelty  and  inge- 
nuity, soon  became  fashionable  at  the  supper-parties  and  in 
the  coffee-houses  of  Paris,  and  were  espoused  by  every  gay 
Marquis,  and  every  facetious  abbe  who  was  admitted  to  see 
Madame  de  Pompadour’s  hair  curled  and  powdered.  It  was 
not,  however,  to  any  political  theory  that  the  strange  coali- 
tion between  France  and  Austria  owed  its  origin.  The  real 
motive  which  induced  the  great  continental  powers  to  forget 
their  old  amimosities  and  their  old  state  maxims,  was  personal 
aversion  to  the  King  of  Prussia.  This  feeling  was  strongest 
in  Maria  Theresa ; but  it  was  by  no  means  confined  to  her. 
Frederic,  in  some  repects  a good  master,  was  emphatically  a 
bad  neighbor.  That  he  was  hard  in  all  dealings,  and  quick  to 
take  all  advantages,  was  not  his  most  odious  fault.  His  bitter 
and  scoffing  speech  had  inflicted  keener  wounds  than  his  am- 
bition. In  his  character  of  withe  was  under  less  restraint 
than  even  in  bis  character  of  ruler.  Satirical  verses  against  all 


*102  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wettings, 

the  princes  and  ministerswff  Europe  were  ascribed  to  his  pen 
In  his  letters  and  conversation  he  alluded  to  the  greatest  po- 
tentates of  the  age  in  terms  which  would  have  better  suited 
Colle  in  a war  of  repartee  with  young  Crebillon  at  Pelletier’s 
table,  than  a great  sovereign  speaking  of  great  sovereigns. 
About  women  he  was  m the  habit  of  expressing  himself  in  a 
manner  which  it  was  impossible  for  the  meekest  of  women  to 
forgive  ; and,  unfortunately  for  him,  almost  the  whole  Conti* 
nent  was  then  governed  by  women  who  were  by  no  means  con- 
spicuous for  meekness.  Maria  Theresa  herself  had  not  escaped 
his  scurrilous  jests.  The  Empress  Elizabeth  of  Russia  knew 
that  her  gallantries  afforded  him  a favorite  theme  for  ribaldry 
and  invective.  Madame  de  Pompadour,  who  was  really  the 
head  of  the  French  Government,  had  been  even  more  keenly 
galled.  She  had  attempted,  by  the  most  delicate  flattery,  to 
propitiate  the  King  of  Prussia  ; but  her  messages  had  drawn 
from  him  only  dry  and  sarcastic  replies.  The  Empress 
Queen  took  a very  different  couise.  Though  the  haughtiest 
of  princesses,  though  the  most  austere  of  matrons,  she  for- 
got in  her  thirst  for  revenge,  both  the  dignity  of  her  race 
and  the  purity  of  her  character,  and  condescended  to  flatter 
the  low-born  and  low-minded  concubine,  who  having  ac- 
quired influence  by  prostituting  herself,  retained  it  by  prosti- 
tuting others.  Maria  Theresa  actually  wrote  with  her  own 
hand  a note,  full  of  expressions  of  esteem  and  frendship  to 
her  dear  cousin,  the  daughter  of  the  butcher  Poisson,  the 
wife  of  the  publican  D’Etioles,  the  kidnapper  of  young  girls 
for  the  harem  of  an  old  rake,  a strange  cousin  for  the  descen- 
dant of  so  many  Emperors  of  the  West ! The  mistress  was 
completely  gained  over,  and  easily  carried  her  point  with 
Lewis,  who  had,  indeed,  wrongs  of  his  own  to  resent.  His 
feelings  were  not  quick;  but  contempt,  says  the  eastern 
proverb,  pierces  even  through  the  shell  of  a tortoise  ; and 
neither  prudence  nor  decorum  had  ever  restrained  Frederic 
from  expressing  his  measureless  contempt  for  the  sloth,  the 
imbecility,  and  the  baseness  of  Lewis.  France  Avas  thus  in- 
duced to  join  the  coalition  ; and  the  example  of  France  de- 
termined the  conduct  of  Sweden,  then  completely  subject  to 
French  influence. 

The  enemies  of  Frederic  were  surely  strong  enough  to 
attack  him  openly ; but  they  were  desirous  to  add  to  all 
their  other  advantages  the  advantage  of  a surprise.  He 
was  not,  however,  a man  to  be  taken  off  his  guard.  He 
had  tools  in  every  court ; and  he  now  received  from  Yier  na 


FREDERIC  THE  GREAT. 


708 


from  Dresden,  and  from  Paris,  accounts  so  circumstantial 
and  so  consistent,  that  he  could  not  doubt  of  his  danger.  He 
learnt  that  he  was  to  be  assailed  at  once  by  France,  Austria, 
Russia,  Saxony,  Sweden,  and  the  Germanic  body ; that  fhe 
greater  part  of  his  dominions  was  to  be  portioned  out  among 
his  enemies  ; that  France,  which  from  her  geographical  posi- 
tion could  not  directly  share  in  his  spoils,  was  to  receive  an 
equivalent  in  the  Netherlands ; that  Austria  was  to  have 
Silesia,  and  the  Czarina  East  Prussia ; that  Augustus  of 
Saxony  expected  Magdeburg;  and  that  Sweden  wmuld  be 
rewarded  with  part  of  Pomerania.  If  these  designs  suc- 
ceeded, the  House  of  Brandenburg  would  at  once  sink  in  the 
European  system  to  a place  lower  than  that  of  the  Duke  of 
Wurtemburg  or  the  Margrave  of  Baden. 

And  what  hope  was  there  that  these  designs  would  fail? 
No  such  union  of  the  continental  powers  had  been  seen  for 
ages.  A less  formidable  confederacy  had  in  a week  con- 
quered all  the  provinces  of  Venice,  when  Venice  was  at  the 
height  of  power,  wealth,  and  glory.  A less  formidable  con- 
federacy had  compelled  Lewis  the  Fourteenth  to  bow  down 
his  haughty  head  to  the  very  earth.  A less  formidable  con- 
federacy has,  within  our  own  memory,  subjugated  a still 
mightier  empire,  and  abased  a still  prouder  name.  Such  odds 
had  never  been  heard  of  in  war.  The  people  whom  Fred- 
eric ruled  were  not  five  millions.  The  population  of  the 
countries  which  were  leagued  against  him  amounted  to  a 
hundred  millions.  The  disproportion  in  wealth  was  at  least 
equally  great.  Small  communities,  actuated  by  strong 
sentiments  of  patriotism  or  loyalty,  have  sometimes  made 
head  against  great  monarchies  weakened  by  factions  and  dis- 
contents. But  small  as  was  Frederic’s  kingdom,  it  probably 
contained  a greater  number  of  disaffected  subjects  than  were 
to  be  found  in  all  the  states  of  his  enemies.  Silesia  formed 
the  forth  part  of  his  dominions ; and  from  the  Silesians, 
born  under  Austrian  princes,  the  utmost  that  he  could  expect 
was  apathy.  From  the  Silesian  Catholics  he  could  hardly 
i xpect  anything  but  resistance. 

Some  states  have  been  enabled,  by  their  geographical 
position,  to  defend  themselves  with  advantage  against  im- 
mense force.  The  sea  has  repeatedly  protected  England 
against  the  fury  of  the  whole  Continent.  The  Venetian 
government,  driven  from  its  possessions  on  the  land,  could 
still  bid  defiance  to  the  confederates  of  Cambray  from  the 
Arsenal  amidst  the  lagoons.  More  than  one  great  and  well 


704  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wettings. 

appointed  army,  which  regarded  the  shepherds  of  Switzer 
land  as  an  easy  prey,  has  perished  in  the  passes  of  the  Alps. 
Frederic  had  no  such  advantage.  The  form  of  his  states, 
their  situation,  the  nature  of  the  ground,  all  were  against 
him.  His  long,  scattered,  straggling  territory  seemed  to 
have  been  shaped  with  an  express  view  to  the  convenience 
of  invaders,  and  was  protected  by  no  sea,  by  no  chain  of 
hills.  Scarcely  any  corner  of  it  was  a week’s  march  from 
the  territory  of  the  enemy.  The  capital  itself,  in  the  event 
of  war,  would  be  constantly  exposed  to  insult.  In  truth, 
there  was  hardly  a politician  or  a soldier  in  Europe  who 
doubted  that  the  conflict  would  be  terminated  in  a very  few 
days  by  the  prostration  of  the  House  of  Brandenburg. 

Nor  was  Frederic’s  own  opinion  very  different.  He 
anticipated  nothing  short  of  his  own  ruin,  and  of  the  ruin  of 
his  family.  Yet  there  was  still  a chance,  a slender  chance, 
of  escape.  His  states  had  at  least  the  advantage  of  a central 
position ; his  enemies  were  widely  separated  from  each 
other,  and  could  not  conveniently  unite  their  overwhelming 
forces  on  one  point.  They  inhabited  different  climates, 
and  it  was  probable  that  the  season  of  the  year  which  would 
be  best  suited  to  the  military  operations  of  one  portion  of 
the  league,  would  be  unfavorable  to  those  of  another  por- 
tion. The  Prussian  monarchy,  too,  was  free  from  some 
infirmities  which  were  found  in  empires  far  more  extensive 
and  magnificent.  Its  effective  strength  for  a desperate 
struggle  was  not  to  be  measured  merely  by  the  number  of 
square  miles  or  the  number  of  people.  In  that  spare  but 
well-knit  and  well-exercised  body,  there  was  nothing  but 
sinew,  and  muscle,  and  bone.  No  public  creditors  looked  for 
dividends.  No  distant  colonies  required  defence.  No  court, 
filled  with  flatterers  and  mistresses,  devoured  the  pay  of  fifty 
battalions.  The  Prussian  army,  though  far  inferior  in  num- 
ber to  the  troops  which  were  about  to  be  opposed  to  it,  was 
yet  strong  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  extent  of  the  Prus- 
sian dominions.  It  was  also  admirably  trained  and  admi- 
rably officered,  accustomed  to  obey  and  accustomed  to 
conquer.  The  revenue  was  not  only  unincumbered  by  debt, 
but  exceeded  the  ordinary  outlay  in  time  of  peace.  Alone 
of  all  the  European  princes,  Frederic  had  a treasure  laid  up 
for  a day  of  difficulty.  Above  all,  he  was  one,  and  his 
enemies  were  many.  In  their  camps  would  certainly  be 
found  the  jealousy,  the  dissension,  the  slackness  inseparable 
from  coalitions  j on  his  side  was  the  energy,  the  unity:  the 


FREDERIC”  TIIE  GREAT. 


705 


secrecy  of  a strong  dictatorship.  To  a certain  extent  the 
deficiency  of  military  means  might  be  supplied  by  the  re- 
sources of  military  art.  Small  as  the  King’s  army  was, 
when  compared  with  the  six  hundred  thousand  men  whom 
the  confederates  could  bring  into  the  field,  celerity  of  move- 
ment might  in  some  degree  compensate  for  deficiency  of 
bulk.  It  was  thus  just  possible  that  genius,  judgment, 
resolution,  and  good  luck  united,  might  protract  the  strug- 
gle during  a campaign  or  two : and  to  gain  even  a month 
was  of  importance.  It  could  not  be  long  before  the  vices 
which  are  found  in  all  extensive  confederacies  would  begin 
to  show  therpselves.  Every  member  of  the  league  would 
think  his  own  share  of  the  war  too  large,  and  his  own  share 
of  the  spoils  too  small.  Complaints  and  recriminations 
would  abound.  The  Turk  might  stir  on  the  Danube ; the 
statesmen  of  France  might  discover  the  error  which  they 
had  committed  in  abandoning  the  fundamental  principles  of 
their  national  policy.  Above  all,  death  might  rid  Prussia  of 
its  most  formidable  enemies.  The  war  was  the  effect  of  the 
personal  aversion  with  which  three  or  four  sovereigns  re- 
garded Frederic ; and  the  decease  of  any  one  of  those 
sovereigns  might  produce  a complete  revolution  in  the  state 
of  Europe. 

In  the  midst  of  a horizon  generally  dark  and  stormy, 
Frederic  could  discern  one  bright  spot.  The  peace  which 
had  been  concluded  between  England  and  France  in  1748, 
had  been  in  Europe  no  more  than  an  armistice  ; and  had  not 
even  been  an  armistice  in  the  other  quarters  of  the  globe. 
In  India  the  sovereignty  of  the  Carnatic  was  disputed  be- 
tween two  great  Mussulman  houses ; For  Saint  George 
had  taken  one  side,  Pondicherry  the  other;  and  in  a 
series  of  battles  and  sieges  the  troops  of  Lawrence  and  Clive 
had  been  opposed  to  those  of  Dupleix.  A struggle  less 
important  in  its  consequences,  but  not  less  likely  to  produce 
irritation,  was  carried  on  between  those  French  and  English 
adventurers,  who  kidnapped  negroes  and  collected  gold  dust 
on  the  coast  of  Guinea.  But  it  was  in  North  America  that 
the  emulation  and  mutual  aversion  of  the  two  nations  were 
most  conspicuous.  The  French  attempted  to  hem  in  the 
English  colonists  by  a chain  of  military  posts,  extending 
from  the  Great  Lakes  to  the  mouth  of  the  Mississippi.  The 
English  took  arms.  The  wild  aboriginal  tribes  appeared  on 
each  side  mingled  with  the  Pale  Faces.  Battles  were 
fought ; forts  were  stormed : and  hideous  stories  about  stakes, 
Vol.  II.— 45 


706  MACATTLAY9S  MISCBlLAKBOtTS  WBrTtN’GS. 

scalpings,  and  death-songs  reached  Europe,  and  inflamed 
that  national  animosity  which  the  rivalry  of  ages  had  pro- 
duced. The  disputes  between  France  and  England  came 
to  a crisis  at  the  very  time  when  the  tempest  which  had 
been  gathering  was  about  to  burst  on  Prussia.  The  tastes 
and  interests  of  Frederic  would  have  led  him,  if  he  had  been 
allowed  an  option,  to  side  with  the  House  of  Bourbon. 
But  the  folly  of  the  Court  of  Versailles  left  him  no  choice* 
France  became  the  tool  of  Austria;  and  Frederic  was  forced 
to  become  the  ally  of  England.  lie  could  not,  indeed,  ex- 
pect that  a power  which  covered  the  sea  with  its  fleets,  and 
which  had  to  make  war  at  once  on  the  Ohio  and  the  Ganges, 
would  be  able  to  spare  a large  number  of  troSps'for  opera- 
tions in  Germany.  But  England,  though  poor  compared 
with  the  England  of  our  time,  was  far  richer  than  any 
country  on  the  Continent.  The  amount  of  her  revenue, 
and  the  resources  which  she  found  in  her  credit,  though 
they  may  be  thought  small  by  a generation  which  has  seen 
her  raise  a hundred  and  thirty  millions  in  a single  year,  ap- 
peared miraculous  to  the  politicians  of  that  age.  A very 
moderate  portion  of  her  wealth,  expended  by  an  able  and 
economical  prince,  in  a country  where  prices  were  low, 
would  be  sufficient  to  equip  and  maintain  a formidable 
army. 

Such  was  the  situation  in  which  Frederic  found  himself. 
He  saw  the  whole  extent  of  his  peril.  He  saw  that  there 
was  still  a faint  possibility  of  escape ; and,  with  prudent 
temerity,  he  determined  to  strike  the  first  blow.  It  was  in 
the  month  of  August,  1756,  that  the  great  war  of  the  Seven 
Years  commenced.  The  King  demanded  of  the  Empress 
Queen  a distinct  explanation  of  her  intentions,  and  plainly 
told  her  that  he  should  consider  a refusal  as  a declaration 
of  7/ar.  “ I want,”  he  said,  “ no  answer  in  the  style  of  an 

oracle.”  He  received  an  answer  at  once  haughty  and  eva- 
sive. In  an  instant  the  rich  electorate  of  Saxony  was  over- 
flowed by  sixty  thousand  Prussian  troops.  Augustus  with 
his  army  occupied  a strong  position  at  Pirna.  The  Queen 
of  Poland  was  at  Dresden.  In  a few  days  Pirna  was  block- 
aded and  Dresden  was  taken.  The  first  object  of  Frederic 
was  to  obtain  possession  of  the  Saxon  State  Papers;  for 
those  papers,  he  well  knew,  contained  ample  proofs  that, 
though  apparently  an  aggressor,  he  was  really  acting  in  self- 
defence.  The  Queen  of  Poland,  as  well  acquainted  as  Fred- 
eric with  the  importance  of  those  documents,  had  packed 


*58*2*. ' ■ 

FSEDERIC  THE  GREAT.  707 

them  up,  had  concealed  them  in  her  bed-cliamher,  and  was 
about  to  send  them  off  to  Warsaw,  when  a Prussian  officer 
made  his  appearance.  In  the  hope  that  no  soldier  would 
venture  to  outrage  a lady,  a queen,  the  daughter  of  an 
emperor,  the  mother-in-law  of  a dauphin,  she  placed  herself 
before  the  trunk,  and  at  length  sat  down  on  it.  But  all  re- 
sistance was  vain.  The  papers  were  carried  to  Frederic, 
who  found  in  them,  as  he  expected,  abundant  evidence  of  the 
designs  of  the  coalition.  The  most  important  documents 
were  instantly  published,  and  the  effect  of  the  publication 
was  great.  It  was  clear  that,  of  whatever  sins  the  King  of 
Prussia  might  formerly  have  been  guilty,  he  was  now  the 
injured  party,  and  had  merely  anticipated  a blow  intended 
to  destroy  him. 

The  Saxon  camp  at  Pirna  was  in  the  mean  time  closely 
invested ; but  the  besieged  were  not  without  hopes  of  suc- 
cor. A great  Austrian  army  under  Marshal  Brown  was 
about  to  pour  through  the  passes  which  separate  Bohemia 
from  Saxony.  Frederic  left  at  Pirna  a force  sufficient  to 
deal  with  the  Saxons,  hastened  into  Bohemia,  encountered 
Brown  at  Lowositz,  and  defeated  him.  This  battle  decided 
the  fate  of  Saxony.  Augustus  and  his  favorite  Bruhl  lied 
to  Poland.  The  whole  army  of  the  electorate  capitulated. 
From  that  time  till  the  end  of  the  war,  Frederic  treated 
Saxony  as  a part  of  his  dominions,  or,  rather,  he  acted  to- 
wards the  Saxons  in  a manner  which  may  serve  to  illustrate 
the  whole  meaning  of  that  tremendous  sentence,  “ subjectos 
tanquam  suos,viles  tanquam  alienos.”  Saxony  was  as  much  in 
his  power  as  Brandenburg ; and  he  had  no  such  interest  in  the 
welfare  of  Saxony  as  he  had  in  the  welfare  of  Brandenburg. 
He  accordingly  levied  troops  and  exacted  contributions 
throughout  the  enslaved  province,  with  far  more  rigor  than 
in  any  part  of  his  own  dominions.  Seventeen  thousand 
men  who  had  been  in  the  camp  at  Pirna  were  half  com- 

?elled,  half  persuaded  to  enlist  under  their  conqueror. 
Tilts,  within  a few  weeks  from  the  commencement  of  hos- 
tilities, one  of  the  confederates  had  been  disarmed,  and  his 
weapons  wrere  now  pointed  against  the  rest. 

The  winter  put  a stop  to  military  operations.  All  had 
hitherto  gone  wrell.  But  the  real  tug  of  war  was  stil  to 
come.  It  was  easy  to  foresee  that  the.  year  1757  would  be  a 
memorable  era  in  the  history  of  Europe. 

The  King's  scheme  for  the  campaign  was  simple,  bold, 
and  judicious.  The  Duke  of  Cumberland  with  an  English 


708  macaulat’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

and  Hanoverian  army  was  in  Western  Germany,  and  might 
be  able  to  prevent  the  French  troops  from  attacking  Prus- 
sia. The  Russians,  confined  by  their  snows,  would  prob- 
ably not  stir  till  the  spring  was  far  advanced.  Saxony 
was  prostrated.  Sweden  could  do  nothing  very  important.. 
During  a few  months  Frederic  would  have  to  deal  with 
Austria  alone.  Even  thus  the  odds  were  against  him.  But 
ability  and  courage  have  often  triumphed  against  odds  stili 
more  formidable. 

Early  in  1757  the  Prussian  army  in  Saxony  began  to 
move.  Through  four  defiles  in  the  mountains  they  came 
pouring  into  Bohemia.  Prague  was  the  King’s  first  mark  ; 
but  the  ulterior  object  was  probably  Vienna.  At  Prague 
lay  .Marshal  Brown  with  one  great  army.  Daun,  the  most 
cautious  and  fortunate  of  the  Austrian  captains,  was  advan- 
cing writh  another.  Frederic  determined  to  overwhelm 
Brown  before  Daun  should  arrive.  On?the  sixth  of  May 
was  fought,  under  those  walls  wdiich,  a hundred  and  thirty 
years  before,  had  witnessed  the  victory  of  the  Catholic  league 
and  the  flight  of  the  unhappy  Palatine,  a battle  more  bloody 
than  any  which  Europe  saw  during  the  long  interval  between 
Malplaquet  and  Eylau.  The  King  and  Prince  Ferdinand 
of  Brunswick  were  distinguished  on  that  day  by  their  valor 
and  exertions.  But  the  chief  glory  was  with  Schwerin. 
When  the  Prussian  infantry  wavered,  the  stout  old  marshal 
snatched  the  colors  from  an  ensign,  and,  waving  them  in  the 
air,  led  back  his  regiment  to  the  charge.  Thus  at  seventy- 
two  years  of  age  he  fell  in  the  thickest  of  the  battle,  still 
grasping  the  standard  which  bears  the  black  eagle  on  the 
field  argent.  The  victory  remained  with  the  King;  but  it 
had  been  dearly  purchased.  Whole  columns  of  his  bravest 
warriors  had  fallen.  He  admitted  that  he  had  lost  eighteen 
thousand  men.  Of  the  enemy,  twenty-four  thousand  had 
been  killed,  wounded,  or  taken. 

Part  of  the  defeated  army  was  shut  up  in  Prague.  Part 
fled  to  join  the  troops  which,  under  the  command  of  Daun, 
were  now  close  at  hand.  Frederic  determined  to  play  over 
the  same  game  which  had  succeeded  at  Lowositz.  lie  left 
a large  force  to  besiege  Prague,  and  at  the  head  of  thirty 
thousand  men  he  marched  against  Daun.  The  cautious 
Marshal,  though  he  had  a great  superiority  in  numbers, 
would  risk  nothing.  He  occupied  at  Kolin  a position  in- 
most impregnable,  and  awaited  the  attack  of  the  Kin^ 

It  was  the  eighteenth  of  June,  a day  which,  if  the  Greet 


FREDERIC  THE  GREAT. 


709 


BUperstition  still  retained  its  influence,  would  be  held  sacred 
to  Nemesis,  a day  on  which  the  two  greatest  princes  of 
modern  times  were  taught,  by  a terrible  experience,  that 
neither  skill  nor  valor  can  fix  the  inconstancy  of  fortune. 
The  battle  began  before  noon ; and  part  of  the  Prussian 
army  maintained  the  contest  till  after  the  midsummer  sun 
had  gone  down.  But  at  length  the  King  found  that  his 
troops,  having  been  repeatedly  driven  back  with  frightful 
carnage,  could  no  longer  be  led  to  the  charge.  He  was  with 
difficulty  persuaded  to  quit  the  field.  The  officers  of  his 
personal  staff  were  under  the  necessity  of  expostulating 
with  him,  and  one  of  them  took  the  liberty  to  say,  “ Does 
your  Majesty  mean  to  storm  the  batteries  alone  ? ” Thirteen 
thousand  of  his  bravest  followers  had  perished.  Nothing 
remained  for  him  but  to  retreat  in  good  order,  to  raise  the 
siege  of  Prague,  and  to  hurry  his  army  by  different  routes 
out  of  Bohemia. 

This  stroke  seemed  to  be  final.  Frederic’s  situation  had 
at  best  been  such,  that  only  an  uninterrupted  run  of  good 
luck  could  save  him,  as  it  seemed,  from  ruin.  And  now, 
plmost  in  the  outset  of  the  contest,  he  had  met  with  a check 
which,  even  in  a war  between  equal  powers,  would  have 
been  felt  as  serious.  He  had  owed  much  to  the  opinion 
which  all  Europe  entertained  of  his  army.  Since  his  acces- 
sion, his  soldiers  had  in  many  successive  battles  been  vic- 
torious over  the  Austrains.  But  the  glory  had  departed 
from  his  arms.  All  whom  his  malevolent  sarcasms  had 
wounded,  made  haste  to  avenge  themselves  by  scoffing  at 
the  scoffer.  His  soldiers  had  ceased  to  confide  in  his  star. 
In  every  part  of  his  camp  his  dispositions  were  severely 
criticized.  Even  in  his  own  family  he  had  detractors.  His 
next  brother,  William,  heir-presumptive,  or  rather,  in  truth, 
heir-apparent  to  the  throne,  and  great-grandfather  of  the 
present  king,  could  not  refrain  from  lamenting  his  own  fate 
and  that  of  the  house  of  Hohenzollern,  once  so  great  and  so 
prosperous,  but  now,  by  the  rash  ambition  of  its  chief,  made 
a by-word  to  all  nations.  These  complaints,  and  some  blun- 
ders which  William  committed  during  the  retreat  from  Bo- 
hemia, called  forth  the  bitter  displeasure  of  the  inexorable 
King.  The  prince’s  heart  was  broken  by  the  cutting  re- 
proaches of  his  brother ; he  quitted  the  army,  retired  to  a 
country  seat,  and  in  a short  time  died  of  shame  and  vexa- 
tion. 

It  seemed  that  the  King’s  distress  could  hardly  be  in- 


710 


macatjlay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


creased.  Yet  at  this  moment  another  blow  not  less  terrible 
than  that  of  Kolin  fell  upon  him.  The  French  under  Mar- 
shal Estrees  had  invaded  Germany.  The  Duke  of  Cumber- 
land had  given  them  battle  at  Hastembeck,  and  had  been 
defeated.  In  order  to  save  the  Electorate  of  Hanover  from 
entire  subjugation,  he  had  made,  at  Closter  Seven,  an  ar- 
rangement with  the  French  Generals,  which  left  them  at 
liberty  to  turn  their  arms  against  the  Prussian  dominions. 

That  nothing  might  be  wanting  to  Frederic’s  distress,  he 
lost  his  mother  just  at  this  time ; and  he  appears  to  have 
felt  the  loss  more  than  was  to  be  expected  from  the  hard- 
ness and  severity  of  his  character.  In  truth,  his  misfortunes 
had  now  cut  to  the  quick.  The  mocker,  the  tyrant,  the 
most  rigorous,  the  most  imperious,  the  most  cynical  of  men, 
was  very  unhappy.  His  face  was  so  haggard  and  his  form 
so  thin,  that  when  on  his  return  from  Bohemia  he  passed 
through  Leipsic,  the  people  hardly  knew  him  again.  Ilis 
sleep  was  broken  ; the  tears,  in  spite  of  himself,  often  started 
into  his  eyes ; and  the  grave  began  to  present  itself  to  his 
agitated  mind  as  the  best  refuge  from  misery  and  dishonor. 
His  resolution  was  fixed  never  to  be  taken  alive,  and  never 
to  make  peace  on  condition  of  descending  from  his  place 
*among  the  powers  of  Europe.  He  saw  nothing  left  for  him 
except  to  die ; and  he  deliberately  chose  his  mode  of  death. 
He  always  carried  about  with  him  if  sure  and  speedy  poison 
in  a small  glass  case ; and  to  the  few  in  whom  he  placed 
confidence  he  made  no  mystery  of  his  resolution. 

But  we  should  very  imperfectly  describe  the  state  of 
Frederic’s  mind,  if  we  left  out  of  view  the  laughable  pecu- 
liarities which  contrasted  so  singularly  with  the  gravity, 
energy,  and  harshness  of  his  character.  It  is  difficult  to  say 
whether  the  tragic  or  the  comic  predominated  m the  strange 
scene  which  was  then  acting.  In  the  midst  of  all  the 
King’s  calamities,  his  passion  for  writing  indifferent  poetry 
grew  stronger  and  stronger.  Enemies  all  round  him,  de- 
spair in  his  heart,  pills  of  corrosive  sublimate  hidden  in  his 
clothes,  he  poured  forth  hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  lines, 
hateful  to  gods  and  men,  the  insipid  dregs  of  Voltaire’s  Hip- 
pocrene,  the  faint  echo  of  the  lyre  of  Chaulieu.  It  is  amus- 
ing to  compare  what  he  did  during  the  la$t  months  of  1757, 
with  what  he  wrote  during  the  same  time.  It  may  be 
doubted  whether  any  equal  portion  of  the  life  of  Hannibal, 
of  Caesar,  or  of  Napoleon,  will  bear  a comparison  witli  that 
short  period,  the  most  brilliant  nx  the  history  of  Prussia  and 


FREDERIC  THE  GREAT# 


711 


of  Frederic.  Tot  at  this  very  time  the  scanty  leisure  of  the 
illustrious  warrior  was  employed  in  producing  odes  and 
epistles,  a little  better  than  Cibber’s,  and  a little  worse  than 
Hayley’s.  Here  and  there  a manly  sentiment  which  de- 
serves to  be  in  prose  makes  its  appearance  in  company  with 
Prometheus  and  Orpheus,  Elysium  and  Acheron,  the  plain- 
tive Philomel,  the  poppies  of  Morpheus,  and  all  the  other 
frippery  which,  like  a robe  tossed  by  a proud  beauty  to  her 
waiting-woman,  has  long  been  contemptuously  abandoned  by 
genius  to  mediocrity.  We  hardly  know  any  instance  of  the 
strength  and  weakness  of  human  nature  so  striking,  and  so 
grotesque,  as  the  character  of  this  haughty,  vigilant,  reso- 
lute, sagacious  blue-stocking,  half  Mithridates  and  half  Tris- 
sotin,  bearing  up  against  a world  in  arms,  with  an  ounce  of 
poison  in  one  pocket  and  a quire  of  bad  verses  in  the  other. 

Frederic  had  some  time  before  made  advances  towards 
a reconciliation  with  Voltaire ; and  some  civil  letters  had 
passed  between  them.  After  the  battle  of  Kolin  their  epis- 
tolary intercourse  became,  at  least  in  seeming,  friendly  and 
confidential.  We  do  not  know  any  collection  of  Letters 
which  throws  so  much  light  on  the  darkest  and  most  intri- 
cate parts  of  human  nature,  as  the  correspondence  of  these 
strange  beings  after  they  had  exchanged  forgiveness.  Both 
felt  that  the  quarrel  had  lowered  them  in  the  public  estima- 
tion. They  admired  each  other.  They  stood  in  need  of 
each  other.  The  great  King  wished  to  be  handed  down  to 
posterity  by  the  great  Writer.  The  great  Writer  felt  him- 
self exalted  by  the  homage  of  the  great  King.  Yet  the 
wounds  which  they  had  inflicted  on  each  other  were  too 
deep  to  be  effaced,  or  even  perfectly  healed.  Not  only  did 
the  scars  remain  ; the  sore  places  often  festered  and  bled 
afresh.  The  letters  consisted  for  the  most  part  of  compli- 
ments, thanks,  offers  of  service,  assurances  of  attachment. 
But  if  anything  brought  back  to  Frederic’s  recollection  the 
cunning  and  mischievous  pranks  by  which  Voltaire  had  pro- 
voked him,  some  expression  of  contempt  and  displeasure 
broke  forth  in  the  midst  of  eulogy.  It  was  much  worse 
when  anything  recalled  to  the  mind  of  Voltaire  the  outrages 
which  he  and  his  kinswoman  had  suffered  at  Frankfort.  All 
at  once  his  flowing  panegyric  wras  turned  into  invective. 
“ Remember  how  you  behaved  to  me.  F or  your  sake  I have 
lost  the  favor  of  my  native  king.  For  your  sake  I am  an 
exile  from  my  country.  I loved  you.  I trusted  myself  to 
you.  I had  no  wish  but  to  end  my  life  in  your  service. 


7i2  MACAULAY*S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

And  what  was  my  reward  ? Stripped  of  all  that  you  had 
bestowed  on  me,  the  key,  the  order,  the  pension,  I was 
forced  to  fly  from  your  territories.  I was  hunted  as  if  I 
had  been  a deserter  from  your  grenadiers.  I was  arrested, 
insulted,  plundered.  My  niece  was  dragged  through  the 
mud  of  Frankfort  by  your  soldiers,  as  if  she  had  been  some 
wretched  follower  of  your  camp.  You  have  great  talents. 
You  have  good  qualities.  But  you  have  one  odious  vice. 
You  delight  in  the  abasement  of  your  fellow-creatures.  You 
have  brought  disgrace  on  the  name  of  philosopher.  You 
have  given  some  color  to  the  slanders  of  the  bigots,  who  say 
that  no  confidence  can  be  placed  in  the  justice  or  humanity 
of  those  who  reject  the  Christian  faith.”  Then  the  King 
answers,  with  less  heat  but  equal  severity — “You  know  that 
you  behaved  shamefully  in  Prussia.  It  was  well  for  you 
that  you  had  to  deal  writh  a man  so  indulgent  to  the  infirmi- 
ties of  genius  as  I am.  You  richly  deserved  to  see  the  in- 
side of  a dungeon.  Your  talents  are  not  more  widely  known 
than  your  faithlessness  and  your  malevolence.  The  grave 
itself  is  no  asylum  from  your  spite.  Maupertuis  is  dead ; 
but  you  still  go  on  calumniating  and  deriding  him,  as  if  you 
had  not  made  him  miserable  enough  while  he  w^as  living. 
Let  us  have  no  more  of  this.  And,  above  all,  let  me  hear 
no  more  of  your  niece.  I am  sick  to  death  of  her  name.  I 
can  bear  with  your  faults  for  the  sake  of  your  merits ; but 
she  has  not  written  Mahomet  or  Merope.” 

An  explosion  of  this  kind  it  might  be  supposed,  would 
necessarily  put  an  end  to  all  amicable  communication. 
But  it  was  not  so.  After  every  outbreak  of  ill  humor  this 
extraordinary  pair  became  more  loving  than  before,  and  ex- 
changed compliments  and  assurances  of  mutual  regard  with 
a wonderful  air  of  sincerity. 

It  may  wrell  be  supposed  that  men  who  wrote  thus  to 
each  other,  were  not  very  guarded  in  what  they  said  of  each 
other.  The  English  ambassador,  Mitchell,  who  knew  that 
the  King  of  Prussia  was  constantly  writing  to  Voltaire  with 
the  greatest  freedom  on  the  most  important  subjects,  was 
amazed  to  hear  his  Majesty  designate  this  highly  favored 
correspondent  as  a bad-hearted  fellow,  the  greatest  rascal 
on  the  face  of  the  earth.  And  the  language  which  the  poet 
held  about  the  king  was  not  much  more  respectful. 

It  would  probably  have  puzzled  Voltaire  himself  to  say 
what  was  his  real  feelings  towards  Frederic.  It  was  com- 
pounded of  all  sentiments,  from  enmity  to  friendship,  and 


FREDERIC  THE  GREAT. 


713 


from  scorn  to  admiration;  and  the  proportion  in  which 
these  elements  were  mixed  changed  every  moment.  The 
old  patriarch  resembled  the  spoiled  child  who  screams, 
stamps,  cuffs,  laughs,  kisses,  and  cuddles  within  one  quarter 
of  an  hour.  His  resentment  wTas  not  extinguished ; yet  he 
was  not  without  sympathy  for  his  old  friend.  As  a French- 
man,  he  wished  success  to  the  arms  of  his  country.  As  a 
philosopher,  he  was  anxious  for  the  stability  of  a throne  on 
which  a philosopher  sat.  He  longed  both  to  save  and  to 
humble  Frederic.  There  was  one  way,  and  only  one,  in 
which  all  his  conflicting  feelings  could  at  once  be  gratified. 
If  Frederic  was  preserved  by  the  interference  of  France,  if 
it  were  known  that  for  that  interference  he  was  indebted  to 
the  mediation  of  Voltaire,  this  would  indeed  be  delicious 
revenge  ; this  would  indeed  be  to  heap  coals  of  fire  on  that 
haughty  head.  Nor  did  the  vain  and  restless  poet  think  it 
impossible  that  he  might,  from  his  hermitage  near  the  Alps, 
dictate  peace  to  Europe.  D’Estrees  had  quitted  Hanover, 
and  the  command  of  the  French  army  had  been  intrusted 
to  the  Duke  of  Richelieu,  a man  whose  chief  distinction  was 
derived  from  his  success  in  gallantry.  Richelieu  was  in 
truth  the  most  eminent  of  that  race  of  seducers  by  profes- 
sion, who  furnished  Crebillon  the  younger  and  La  Clos  with 
models  for  their  heroes.  In  his  earlier  days  the  royal  house 
itself  had  not  been  secure  from  this  presumptuous  love. 
He  was  believed  to  have  carried  his  conquests  into  the 
family  of  Orleans ; and  some  suspected  that  he  was  not  un- 
concerned in  the  mysterious  remorse  which  embittered  the 
last  hours  of  the  charming  mother  of  Lewis  the  Fifteenth. 
But  the  Duke  was  now  sixty  years  old.  With  a heart  deeply 
corrupted  by  vice,  a head  long  accustomed  to  think  only  on 
trifles,  an  impaired  constitution,  an  impaired  fortune,  and, 
worst  of  all,  a very  red  nose,  he  was  entering  on  a dull, 
frivolous,  and  unrespected  old  age.  Without  one  qualifica- 
tion for  military  command,  except  that  personal  courage 
which  was  common  between  him  and  the  whole  nobility  of 
France,  he  had  been  placed  at  the  head  of  the  army  of 
Hanover  ; and  in  that  situation  he  did  his  best  to  repair,  by 
extortion  and  corruption,  the  injury  which  he  had  done  to 
his  property  by  a life  of  dissolute  profusion. 

The  Duke  of  Richelieu  to  the  end  of  his  life  hated  the 
philosophers  as  a sect,  not  for  those  parts  of  their  system 
which  a good  and  wise  man  would  have  condemned,  but  for 
their  virtues,  for  their  spirit  of  free  inquiry,  and  for  theif 


714  MACAULAY’b  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

hatred  of  those  social  abuses  of  which  he  was  himself  the 
personification.  But  he,  like  many  of  those  who  thought 
with  him,  excepted  Voltaire  from  the  list  of  proscribed 
writers.  He  frequently  sent  flattering  letters  to  Ferney. 
lie  did  the  patriarch  the  honor  to  borrow  money  of  him, 
and  even  carried  this  condescending  friendship  so  far  as  to 
forget  to  pay  the  interest.  Voltaire  thought  that  it  might 
be  in  his  power  to  bring  the  Duke  and  the  King  of  Prussia 
into  communication  with  each  other.  He  wrote  earnestly 
to  both ; and  he  so  far  succeeded  that  a correspondence  be- 
tween them  commenced. 

But  #it  was  to  very  different  means  that  Frederic  was 
to  owe  his  deliverance.  At  the  beginning  of  November,  the 
net  seemed  to  have  closed  completely  round  him.  The 
Russians  were  in  the  field,  and  were  spreading  devastation 
through  his  eastern  provinces.  Silesia  was  overrun  by  the 
Austrians.  A great  French  army  was  advancing  from  the 
west  under  the  command  of  Marshal  Soubise,  a prince  of 
the  great  Armorican  house  of  Rohan.  Berlin  itself  had 
been  taken  and  plundered  by  the  Croatians.  Such  was  the 
situation  from  which  Frederic  extricated  himself,  with  daz- 
zling glory,  in  the  short  space  of  thirty  days. 

He  marched  first  against  Soubise.  On  the  fifth  of  Novem- 
ber the  armies  met  at  Rosbach.  The  French  were  two  to  one ; 
but  they  were  ill  disciplined,  and  their  general  was  a dunce. 
The  tactics  of  Frederic,  and  the  well-regulated  valor  of  the 
Prussian  troops,  obtained  a complete  victory.  Seven  thou- 
sand of  the  invaders  were  made  prisoners.  Their  guns,  their 
colors,  their  baggage,  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  conquerors. 
Those  who  escaped  fled  as  confusedly  as  a mob  scattered  by 
cavalry.  Victorious  in  the  West,  the  King  turned  his  arms 
towards  Silesia.  In  that  quarter  everything  seemed  to  be  lost. 
Breslau  had  fallen  ; and  Charles  of  Loraine,  with  a mighty 
power,  held  the  whole  province.  On  the  fifth  of  December, 
exactly  one  month  after  the  battle  of  Rosbach,  Frederic, 
with  forty  thousand  men,  and  Prince  Charles,  at  the  head 
of  not  less  than  sixty  thousand,  met  at  Leuthen,  hard  by 
Breslau.  The  King,  who  was,  in  general,  perhaps  too  much 
inclined  to  consider  the  common  soldier  as  a mere  machine, 
resorted,  on  this  great  day,  to  means  resembling  those  which 
Bonaparte  afterwards  employed  with  such  signal  success  for 
the  purpose  of  stimulating  military  enthusiasm.  The  prin- 
cipal officers  were  convoked.  Frederic  addressed  them 
with  great  force  and  pathos ; and  directed  them  to  speak  to 


FR'J&DERTC  THE  GHEAT. 


715 


their  men  as  he  had  spoken  to  them.  When  the  armies 
were  set  in  battle  array,  the  Prussian  troops  were  in  a state 
of  fierce  excitement;  but  their  excitement  showed  itself 
after  the  fashion  of  a grave  people.  The  columns  advanced 
to  the  attack  chanting,  to  the  sound  of  drums  and  fifes,  the 
rude  hymns  of  the  old  Saxon  Sternholds.  They  had  never 
fought  so  well ; nor  had  the  genius  of  their  chief  ever  been 
so  conspicuous.  “That  battle,”  said  Napoleon,  “ was  a 
masterpiece.  Of  itself  it  is  sufficient  to  entitle  Frederic  to 
a place  in  the  first  rank  among  generals.”  The  victory  was 
complete.  Twenty-seven  thousand  Austrians  were  killed, 
wounded,  or  taken  ; fifty  stand  of  colors,  a hundred  guns, 
four  thousand  wagons,  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Prussians. 
Breslau  opened  its  gates;  Silesia  was  reconquered;  Charles 
of  Loraine  retired  to  hide  his  shame  and  sorrow  at  Brussels ; 
and  Frederic  allowed  his  troops  to  take  some  repose  in 
winter  quarters,  after  a campaign,  to  the  vicissitudes  of 
which  it  will  be  difficult  to  find  any  parallel  in  ancient  or 
modern  history. 

The  King’s  fame  filled  all  the  world.  He  had,  during 
the  last  year,  maintained  a contest,  on  terms  of  advantage, 
against  three  powers,  the  weakest  of  which  had  more  than 
three  times  his  resources.  He  had  fought  four  great  pitched 
battles  against  superior  forces.  Three  of  these  battles  he 
had  gained ; and  the  defeat  of  Kolin,  repaired  as  it  had 
been,  rather  raised  than  lowered  his  military  renown.  The 
victory  of  Leuthen  is,  to  this  day,  the  proudest  on  the  roll 
of  Prussian  fame.  Leipsic  indeed,  and  Waterloo,  produced 
consequences  more  important  to  mankind.  But  the  glory 
of  Leipsic  must  be  shared  by  the  Prussians  with  the  Aus- 
trians and  Russians;  and  at  Waterloo  the  British  Infantry 
bore  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day.  The  victory  of  Ros- 
bach  was,  in  a military  point  of  view,  less  honorable  than 
that  of  Leuthen  ; for  it  was  gained  over  an  incapable  gen- 
eral and  a disorganized  army ; but  the  moral  effect  which  it 
produced  was  immense.  All  the  preceding  triumphs  of 
Frederic  had  been  triumphs  over  Germans,  and  could  excite 
no  emotions  of  national  pride  among  the  German  people, 
It  was  impossible  that  a Hessian  or  a Hanoverian  could  feel 
any  patriotic  exultation  at  hearing  that  Pomeranians  had 
slaughtered  Moravians,  or  that  Saxon  banners  had  been 
hung  in  the  churches  of  Berlin.  Indeed,  though  the  military 
character  of  the  Germans  justly  stood  high  throughout  the 
world,  they  could  boast  of  no  great  day  which  belonged  to 


716  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

them  as  a people ; of  no  Agincourt,  of  no  Bannockburn. 
Most  of  their  victories  had  been  gained  over  each  other; 
and  their  most  splendid  exploits  against  foreigners  had  been 
achieved  under  the  command  of  Eugene,  who  was  himself 
a foreigner.  The  news  of  the  battle  of  Rosbach  stirred  the 
blood  of  the  whole  of  the  mighty  population  from  the  Alps 
to  the  Baltic,  and  from  the  borders  of  Courland  to  those  of 
Loraine.  Westphalia  and  Lower  Saxony  had  been  deluged 
by  a great  host  of  strangers,  whose  speech  was  unintelligible, 
and  whose  petulent  and  licentious  manners  had  excited  the 
strongest  feelings  of  disgust  and  hatred.  That  great  host 
had  been  put  to  flight  by  a small  band  of  German  wrarriors, 
led  by  a prince  of  German  blood  on  the  side  of  father  and 
mother,  and  marked  by  the  fair  hair  and  clear  blue  eye  of 
Germany.  Never  since  the  dissolution  of  the  empire  of 
Charlemagne,  had  the  Teutonic  race  won  such  a field  against 
the  French.  The  tidings  called  forth  a general  burst  of  de- 
light and  pride  from  the  whole  of  the  great  family  which 
spoke  the  various  dialects  of  the  ancient  language  of  Ar- 
minius.  The  name  of  Frederic  began  to  supply,  in  some 
degree,  the  place  of  a common  government  and  of  a com- 
mon capital.  It  became  a rallying  point  for  all  true  Ger- 
mans, a subject  of  mutual  congratulation  to  the  Bavarian  and 
the  Westphalian,  to  the  citizen  of  Frankfort  and  the  citizen 
of  Nuremburg.  Then  first  it  was  manifest  that  the  Ger- 
mans were  truly  a nation.  Then  first  was  discernible  that 
patriotic  spirit  which,  in  1813,  achieved  the  great  deliver- 
ance of  central  Europe,  and  which  still  guards,  and  long  will 
guard,  against  foreign  ambition  the  old  freedom  of  the 
Rhine. 

Nor  were  the  effects  produced  by  that  celebrated  day 
merely  political.  The  greatest  masters  of  German  poetry 
and  eloquence  have  admitted  that,  though  the  great  King 
neither  valued  nor  understood  his  native  language,  though 
he  looked  on  France  as  the  only  seat  of  taste  and  philoso- 
phy, yet,  in  his  own  despite,  he  did  much  to  emancipate  the 
genius  of  his  countrymen  from  the  foreign  yoke ; and  that, 
in  the  act  of  vanquishing  Soubise,  he  was,  unintentionally, 
rousing  the  spirit  which  soon  began  to  question  the  literary 
precedence  of  Boileauand  Voltaire.  So  strangely  do  events 
confound  all  the  plans  of  man.  A prince  who  read  only 
French,  who  wrote  only  French,  who  aspired  to  rank  as  a 
French  classic,  became,  quite  unconsciously,  the  means  of 
liberating  half  the  Continent  from  the  dominion  of  that 


iTRKBEXtTCJ  TtlT2  GKEAt 


717 


French  criticism  of  which  he  was  himself,  to  the  end  of  his 
life,  a slave.  Yet  even  the  enthusiasm  of  Germany  in  favor 
of  Frederic  hardly  equalled  the  enthusiasm  of  England. 
The  birth-day  of  our  ally  was  celebrated  with  as  much  en- 
thusiasm as  that  of  our  own  sovereign ; and  at  night  the 
streets  of  London  were  in  a blaze  with  illuminations.  Por- 
traits of  the  hero  of  Rosbach,  with  his  cocked  hat  and  long 
pigtail,  were  in  every  house.  An  attentive  observer  will,  at 
this  day,  find  in  the  parlors  of  old-fashioned  inns,  and  in  the 
portfolios  of  print-sellers,  twenty  portraits  of  Frederic  for 
one  of  George  the  Second.  The  sign  painters  were  every- 
where employed  in  touching  up  Admiral  Vernon  into  the 
King  of  Prussia.  This  enthusiasm  was  strong  among  re- 
ligious people,  and  especially  among  the  Methodists,  who 
knew  that  the  French  and  Austrians  were  Papists,  and  sup- 
posed Frederic  to  be  the  Joshua  or  Gideon  of  the  Reformed 
Faith.  One  of  Whitfield’s  hearers,  on  the  day  on  which  thanks 
for  the  battle  of  Leuthen  were  returned  at  the  Tabernacle, 
made  the  following  exquisitely  ludicrous  entry  in  a diary,  part 
of  which  has  come  down  to  us  : “ The  Lord  stirred  up  the 

King  of  Prussia  and  his  soldiers  to  pray.  They  kept  three 
fast  days,  and  spent  about  an  hour  praying  and  singing 
psalms  before  they  engaged  the  enemy.  O ! how  good  it  is 
to  pray  and  fight ! ” Some  young  Englishmen  of  rank  pro- 
posed to  visit  Germany  as  volunteers,  for  the  purpose  of 
learning  the  art  of  war  under  the  greatest  of  commanders. 
This  last  proof  of  British  attachment  and  admiration,  Fred- 
eric politely  but  firmly  declined.  His  camp  was  no  place 
for  amateur  students  of  military  science.  The  Prussian 
discipline  was  rigorous  even  to  cruelty.  The  officers,  while 
in  the  field,  were  expected  to  practise  an  abstemiousness 
and  self-denial,  such  as  was  hardly  surpassed  by  the  most 
rigid  monastic  orders.  However  noble  their  birth,  however 
high  their  rank  in  the  service,  they  were  not  permitted  to 
eat  from  anything  better  than  pewter.  It  was  a high  crime 
even  in  a count  and  field-marshal  to  have  a single  silver 
spoon  among  his  baggage.  Gay  young  Englishmen  of 
twenty  thousand  a year,  accustomed  to  liberty  and  to  lux- 
ury, would  not  easily  submit  to  these  Spartan  restraints. 
The  King  could  not  venture  to  keep  them  in  order  as  he 
kept  his  own  subjects  in  order.  Situated  as  he  was  with 
respect  to  England,  lie  could  not  well  imprison  or  shoot  re- 
fractory Howards  and  Cavendishes.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  example  of  a few  fine  gentlemen,  attended  by  chariots 


718  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  whitings. 

and  livery  servants,  eating  in  plate,  and  drinking  Champagne 
and  Tokay,  was  enough  to  corrupt  his  whole  army.  He 
thought  it  best  to  make  a stand  at  first,  and  civilly  refused 
to  admit  such  dangerous  companions  among  his  troops. 

The  help  of  England  was  bestowed  in  a manner  far  more 
useful  and  more  acceptable.  An  annual  subsidy  of  near 
seven  hundred  thousand  pounds  ‘enabled  the  King  to  add 
probably  more  than  fifty  thousand  men  to  his  army.  Pitt, 
now  at  the  height  of  power  and  popularity,  undertook  the 
task  of  defending  Western  Germany  against  France,  and 
asked  Frederic  only  the  loan  of  a general.  The  general 
selected  was  Prince  Ferdinand  of  Brunswick,  who  had  at- 
tained high  distinction  in  the  Prussian  service.  He  was  put 
at  the  head  of  an  army,  partly  English,  partly  Hanoverian, 
partly  composed  of  mercenaries  hired  from  the  petty  princes 
of  the  empire.  He  soon  vindicated  the  choice  of  the  two 
allied  courts,  and  proved  himself  the  second  general  of  the 
age. 

Frederic  passed  the  winter  at  Breslau,  in  reading, 
writing,  and  preparing  for  the  next  campaign.  The  havoc 
which  the  war  had  made  among  his  troops  was  rapidly  re- 
paired ; and  in  the  spring  of  1758  he  was  again  ready  for  the 
conflict.  Prince  Ferdinand  kept  the  French  in  check.  The 
King  in  the  mean  time,  after  attempting  against  the  Aus- 
trians some  operations  which  led  to  no  very  important  re- 
sults, marched  to  encounter  the  Russians,  who,  slaying, 
burning,  and  wasting  wherever  they  turned,  had  penetrated 
into  the  heart  of  his  realm.  He  gave  them  battle  at  Zorn- 
dorf,  near  Frankfort  on  the  Oder.  The  fight  was  long  and 
bloody.  Quarter  was  neither  given  nor  taken ; for  the  Ger- 
mans and  Scythians  regarded  each  other  with  bitter  aver- 
sion, and  the  sight  of  the  ravages  committed  by  the  half- 
savage invaders  had  incensed  the  King  and  his  army.  The 
Russians  were  overthrown  with  great  slaughter ; and  for  a 
few  months  no  further  danger  was  to  be  apprehended  from 
the  east. 

A day  of  thanksgiving  was  proclaimed  by  the  King,  and 
was  celebrated  with  pride  and  delight  by  his  people.  The 
rejoicings  in  England  were  not  less  enthusiastic  or  less  sin- 
cere. This  may  be  selected  as  the  point  of  time  at  which 
the  military  glory  of  Frederic  reached  the  zenith.  In  the 
ehert  space  of  three-quarters  of  a year  he  had  won  three 
great  battles  over  the  armies  of  three  mighty  and  warlike 
monarchies,  France,  Austria  ana  Russia. 


FREDERIC  THE  GREAT. 


719 


But  it  was  decreed  that  the  temper  of  that  strong  mind 
should  be  tried  by  both  extremes  of  fortune  in  rapid  suc- 
cession. Close  upon  this  series  of  triumphs  came  a series  of 
disasters,  such  as  would  have  blighted  the  fame  and  broken 
the  heart  of  almost  any  other  commander.  Yet  Frederic,  in 
the  midst  of  his  calamities,  was  still  an  object  of  admiration 
to  his  subjects,  his  allies,  and  his  enemies.  Overwhelmed 
by  adversity,  sick  of  life,  he  still  maintained  the  contest, 
greater  in  defeat,  in  flight,  and  in  what  seemed  hopeless 
ruin,  than  on  the  fields  of  his  proudest  victories. 

Having  vanquished  the  Russians,  he  hastened  into 
Saxony  to  oppose  the  troops  of  the  Empress  Queen,  com- 
manded by  Daun,  the  most  cautious,  and  Laudohn,  the  most 
inventive  and  enterprising  of  her  generals.  These  two 
celebrated  commanders  agreed  on  a scheme,  in  which  the 
prudence  of  the  one  and  the  vigor  of  the  other  seemed  to 
have  been  happily  combined.  At  dead  of  night  they  sur- 
prised the  King  in  his  camp  at  Hochkirchen.  His  presence 
of  mind  saved  his  troops  from  destruction;  but  nothing 
could  save  them  from  defeat  and  severe  loss.  Marshal  Keith 
was  among  the  slain.  The  first  roar  of  the  guns  roused  the 
noble  exile  from  his  rest,  and  he  was  instantly  in  the  front 
of  the  battle.  He  received  a dangerous  wound,  but  refused 
to  quit  the  field,  and  was  in  the  act  of  rallying  his  broken 
troops,  when  an  Austrian  bullet  terminated  his  chequered 
and  eventful  life. 

The  misfortune  was  serious.  But  of  all  generals  Frederic 
understood  best  how  to  repair  defeat,  and  Daun  understood 
least  how  to  improve  victory.  In  a few  days  the  Prussian 
army  was  as  formidable  as  before  the  battle.  The  prospect 
was,  however,  gloomy.  An  Austrian  army  under  General 
Ilarsch  had  invaded  Silesia,  and  invested  the  fortress  of 
Keisse.  Daun,  after  his  success  at  Hochkirchen,  had  writ- 
ten to  Harsch  in  very  confident  terms  : — “ Go  on  with  your 
operations  against  Neisse.  Be  quite  at  ease  as  to  the  King. 
I will  give  a good  account  of  him.”  In  truth,  the  position 
of  the  Prussians  was  full  of  difficulties.  Between  them  and 
Silesia  lay  the  victorious  army  of  Daun.  It  was  not  easy 
for  them  to  reach  Silesia  at  all.  If  they  did  reach  it,  they 
left  Saxony  exposed  to  the  Austrians.  But  the  vigor  and 
activity  of  Frederic  surmounted  every  obstacle.  He  made 
a circuitous  inarch  of  extraordinary  rapidity,  passed  Daun, 
hastened  into  Silesia,  raised  the  siege  of  Neisse,  and 
drove  Harsch  into  Bohemia.  Daun  availed  himself  of 


720  macaulat’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

the  King’s  absence  to  attack  Dresden.  The  Prussia 
defended  it  desperately.  The  inhabitants  of  that  wealthy 
and  polished  capital  begged  in  vain  for  mercy  from 
the  garrison  within,  and  from  the  besiegers  without. 
The  beautiful  suburbs  were  burned  to  the  grounck  It 
was  clear  that  the  town  if  won  at  all,  would  be  won  street 
by  street  by  the  bayonet.  At  this  conjuncture,  came  news 
that  Frederic,  having  cleared  Silesia  of  his  enemies,  was  re- 
turning by  forced  marches  into  Saxony.  Daun  retired 
from  before  Dresden,  and  fell  back  into  the  Austrian  terri- 
tories. The  King,  over  heaps  of  ruins,  made  his  triumph- 
ant entry  into  the  unhappy  metropolis,  which  had  so  cruelly 
expiated  the  weak  and  perfidious  policy  of  its  sovereign. 
It  was  now  the  twentieth  of  November.  The  cold  weather 
suspended  military  operations;  and  the  King  again  took  up 
his  winter  quarters  at  Breslau. 

The  third  of  the  seven  terrible  years  was  over;  and 
Frederic  still  stood  his  ground.  He  had  been  recently  tried 
by  domestic  as  well  as  by  military  disasters.  On  the  four- 
teenth of  October,  the  day  on  which  he  was  defeated  at 
Hochkirchen,  the  day  on  the  anniversary  of  which,  forty- 
eight  years  later,  a defeat  far  more  tremendous  laid  the 
Prussian  monarchy  in  the  dust,  died  Wilhelmina,  Mar- 
gravine of  Bareuth.  From  the  accounts  which  we  have  of 
her,  by  her  own  hand,  and  by  the  hands  of  the  most  dis- 
cerning of  her  contemporaries,  we  should  pronounce  her  to 
have  been  coarse,  indelicate,  and  a good  hater,  but  not  des- 
titute of  kind  and  generous  feelings.  Her  mind,  naturally 
strong  and  observant,  had  been  highly  cultivated;  and  she 
was,  and  deserved  to  be,  Frederic’s  favorite  sister.  He  felt 
the  loss  as  much  as  it  was  in  his  iron  nature  to  feel  the  loss 
of- any  thing  but  a province  or  a battle. 

At  Breslau,  during  the  winter,  he  was  indefatigable  in 
his  poetical  labors.  The  most  spirited  lines,  perhaps,  that 
lie  ever  wrote,  are  to  be  found  in  a bitter  lampoon  on  Lewis 
and  Madame  de  Pompadour,  which  he  composed  at  this 
time  and  sent  to  Voltaire.  The  verses  were,  indeed,  so  good, 
that  Voltaire  was  afraid  that  he  might  himself  be  suspected 
of  having  written  them,  or  at  least  of  having  corrected  them  ; 
and  partly  from  fright,  partly,  we  fear,  from  love  of  mischief, 
sent  them  to  the  Duke  of  Choiseul,  then  prime  minister 
of  France.  Choiseul  very  wisely  determined  to  encounter 
Frederic  with  Frederic’s  own  weapons,  and  applied  for  as- 
sistance to  PaUssot,  who  had  some  skill  as  a versifier*  and 


FREDERIC  THE  GREAT. 


721 


stnie  little  talent  for  satire.  Palissot  produced  some  very 
stinging  lines  on  the  moral  and  literary  character  of  Frederic 
and  these  lines  the  Duke  sent  to  Voltaire.  This  war  of 
couplets,  following  close  on  the  carnage  of  Zorndorf  and 
the  conflagration  of  Dresden,  illustrates  well  the  strangely 
compounded  character  of  the  King  of  Prussia. 

At  this  moment  he  was  assailed  by  a new  enemy.  Ben- 
edict the  Fourteenth,  the  best  and  wisest  of  the  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  successors  of  St.  Peter,  was  no  more.  Dun 
mg  the  short  interval  between  his  reign  and  that  of  his  dis- 
ciple Ganganelli,  the  chief  seat  in  the  Church  of  Rome  was 
Ailed  by  Rezzonico,  who  took  the  name  of  Clement  the 
Thirteenth.  This  absurd  priest  determined  to  try  what  the 
weight  of  his  authority  could  effect  in  favor  of  the  orthodox 
Maria  Theresa  against  a heretic  king.  At  the  high  mass  on 
Christmas-day,  a sword  with  a rich  belt  and  scabbard,  a hat 
of  crimson  velvet  lined  with  ermine,  and  a dove  of  pearls, 
the  mystic  symbol  of  the  Divine  Comforter,  were  solemnly 
blessed  by  the  supreme  pontiff,  and  were  sent  with  great 
ceremony  to  Marshal  Daun,  the  conqueror  of  Kolin  and 
Hochkirchen.  This  mark  of  favor  had  more  than  once  been 
bestowed  by  the  Popes  on  the  great  champions  of  the  faith. 
Similar  honors  had  been  paid,  more  than  six  centuries  earlier, 
by  Urban  the  Second  to  Godfrey  of  Bouillon.  Similar 
honors  had  been  conferred  on  Alba  for  destroying  the  liber- 
ties of  the  Low  Countries,  and  on  John  Sobiesky  after  the 
deliverance  of  Vienna.  But  the  presents  which  were  re- 
ceived with  profound  reverence  by  the  Baron  of  the  Holy 
Sepulchre  in  the  eleventh  century,  and  which  had  not 
wholly  lost  their  value  even  in  the  seventeenth  century,  ap- 
peared inexpressibly  ridiculous  to  a generation  which  read 
Montesquieu  and  Voltaire.  Frederic  wrote  sarcastic  verses 
on  the  gifts,  the  giver,  and  the  receiver.  But  the  public 
wanted  no  prompter ; and  an  universal  roar  of  laughter  from 
Petersburg  to  Lisbon  reminded  the  Vatican  that  the  age  of 
crusades  was  over. 

The  fourth  campaign,  the  most  disastrous  of  all  the 
campaigns  of  this  fearful  war,  had  now  opened.  The  Aus- 
trians filled  Saxony  and  menaced  Berlin.  The  Russians  de- 
feated the  King’s  generals  on  the  Oder,  threatened  Silesia, 
effected  a junction  with  Laudohn,  and  intrenched  themselves 
strongly  at  Kunersdori  Frederic  hastened  to  attack  them. 
A great  battle  w m fought,  During  the  earlier  part  of  the 
day  everything  yielded  to  the  impetuosity  of  the  Prussians, 
Von,  IL—4Q 


722  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

and  to  the  skill  of  their  chief.  The  linos  were  forced.  Half 
the  Russian  guns  were  taken.  The  King  sent  off  a courier 
to  Berlin  with  two  lines,  announcing  a complete  victory. 
But,  in  the  mean  time,  the  stubborn  Russians,  defeated  yet 
unbroken,  had  taken  up  their  stand  in  an  almost  impregnable 
position,  on  an  eminence  wThere  the  Jews  of  Frankfort 
were  wTont  to  bury  their  dead.  Here  the  battle  recom- 
menced. The  Prussian  infantry,  exhausted  by  six  hours  of 
hard  fighting  under  a sun  which  equalled  the  tropical  heat, 
were  yet  brought  up  repeatedly  to  the  attack,  but  in  vain. 
The  King  led  three  charges  in  person.  Two  horses  were 
killed  under  him.  The  officers  of  his  staff  fell  all  around 
him.  His  coat  was  pierced  by  several  bullets.  All  was  in 
vain.  His  infantry  was  driven  back  wTith  frightful  slaugh- 
ter. Terror  began  to  spread  fast  from  man  to  man.  At 
that  moment,  the  fiery  cavalry  of  Laudohn,  still  fresh, 
rushed  on  the  wavering  ranks.  Then  followed  an  universal 
rout.  Frederic  himself  w^as  on  the  point  of  falling  into  the 
hands  of  the  conquerors,  and  was  with  difficulty  saved  by  a 
gallant  officer,  who,  at  the  head  of  a handful  of  Hussars, 
made  good  a diversion  of  a few  minutes.  Shattered  in 
body,  shattered  in  mind,  the  King  reached  that  night  a vil- 
lage which  the  Cossacks  had  plundered  ; and  there,  in  a 
ruined  and  deserted  farm-house,  flung  himself  on  a heap  of 
straw.  He  had  sent  to  Berlin  a second  despatch  very  dif- 
ferent from  his  first : — “ Let  the  royal  family  leave  Berlin. 
Send  the  archives  to  Potsdam.  The  town  may  make  terms 
with  the  enemy.” 

The  defeat  was,  in  truth,  overwhelming.  Of  fifty  thou- 
sand men  wdio  had  that  morning  marched  under  the  black 
eagles,  not  three  thousand  remained  together.  The  King 
bethought  him  again  of  his  corrosive  sublimate,  and  wrote 
to  bid  adieu  to  his  friends,  and  to  give  directions  as  to  the 
measures  to  be  taken  in  the  event  of  his  death  : — “ I have 
no  resource  left” — such  is  the  language  of  one  of  his  letters 
- — “ all  is  lost.  I will  not  survive  the  ruin  of  my  country. 
Farewell  forever.” 

But  the  mutual  jealousies  of  the  confederates  prevented 
them  from  following  up  their  victory.  They  lost  a few  days 
in  loitering  and  squabbling ; and  a few  days,  improved  by 
Frederic,  were  worth  more  than  the  years  of  other  men. 
On  the  morning  after  the  battle,  he  had  got  together  eighteen 
thousand  of  his  troops.  V ery  soon  his  force  amounted  to 
thirty  thousand.  Guns  were  procured  from  the  neighboring 


tRSDERIO  TttR  GREAT, 


723 


fortresses;  and  there  was  again  an  army.  Berlin  was  for 
the  present  safe ; but  calamities  came  pouring  on  the  King 
in  uninterrupted  succession.  One  of  his  generals,  with  a 
large  body  of  troops,  was  taken  at  Maxen ; another  was  de- 
feated at  Meissen ; and  when  at  length  the  campaign  of 
1759  closed,  in  the  midst  of  a rigorous  winter,  the  situation 
of  Prussia  appeared  desperate.  The  only  consoling  cir- 
cumstance was,  that,  in  the  West,  Ferdinand  of  Brunswick 
had  been  more  fortunate  than  his  master ; and  by  a series 
of  exploits,  of  which  the  battle  of  Minden  was  the  most 
glorious,  had  removed  all  apprehension  of  danger  on  the 
side  of  France. 

The  fifth  year  was  now  about  to  commence.  It  seemed 
impossible  that  the  Prussian  territories,  repeatedly  devas- 
tated by  hundreds  of  thousands  of  invaders,  could  longer 
support  the  contest.  But  the  King  carried  on  war  as  no 
European  power  has  ever  carried  on  war,  except  the  Com- 
mittee of  Public  Safety  during  the  great  agony  of  the 
French  Revolution.  He  governed  his  kingdom  as  he  would 
have  governed  a besieged  town,  not  caring  to  what  extent 
property  was  destroyed,  or  the  pursuits  of  civil  life  suspend- 
ed, so  that  he  did  but  make  head  against  the  enemy.  As 
long  as  there  was  a man  left  in  Prussia,  that  man  might 
carry  a musket ; as  long  as  there  was  a horse  left,  that  horse 
might  draw  artillery.  The  coin  was  debased,  the  civil 
functionaries  were  left  unpaid;  in  some  provinces  civil  gov- 
ernment altogether  ceased  to  exist.  But  there  were  still 
rye-bread  and  potatoes ; there  were  still  lead  and  gunpow- 
der ; and,  while  the  means  of  sustaining  and  destroying 
life  remained,  Frederic  was  determined  to  fight  it  out  to 
the  very  last. 

The  earlier  part  of  the  campaign  of  1760  was  unfavorable 
to  him.  Berlin  was  again  occupied  by  the  enemy.  Great 
contributions  were  levied  on  the  inhabitants,  and  the  royal 
palace  was  plundered.  But  at  length,  after  two  years  of 
calamity,  victory  came  back  to  his  arms.  At  Lignitz  he 
gained  a great  battle  over  Laudohn ; at  Torgau,  after  a day 
of  horrible  carnage,  he  triumphed  over  Daun.  The  fifth 
year  closed,  and  still  the  event  was  in  suspense.  In  the 
countries  where  the  war  had  raged,  the  misery  and  exhaus- 
tion were  more  appalling  than  ever;  but  still  there  were 
left  men  and  beasts,  arms  and  food,  and  still  Frederic  fought 
on.  In  truth  he  had  now  been  baited  into  savageness.  Ilia 
heart  was  ulcerated  with  hatred.  The  implacable  resent- 


^24  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

ment  with  which  his  enemies  persecuted  him,  though  origi- 
nally provoked  by  his  own  unprincipled  ambition,  excited  in 
him  a thirst  for  vengeance  which  he  did  not  even  attempt 
to  conceal.  “It  is  hard,”  he  says  in  one  of  his  letters,  “ for 
man  to  bear  what  I bear.  I begin  to  feel  that,  as  the  Italians 
say,  revenge  is  a pleasure  for  the  gods.  My  philosophy  is 
worn  out  by  suffering.  I am  no  saint,  like  those  of  whom 
we  read  in  the  legends  ; and  I will  own  that  I should  die 
content  if  only  I could  first  inflict  a portion  of  the  misery 
which  I endure.” 

Borne  up  by  such  feelings  he  struggled  with  various 
success,  but  constant  glory,  through  the  campaign  of  1761. 
On  the  whole,  the  result  of  this  campaign  was  disastrous  to 
Prussia.  N o great  battle  was  gained  by  the  enemy  ; but,  in 
spite  of  the  desperate  bounds  of  the  hunted  tiger,  the  circle 
of  pursuers  was  fast  closing  round  him.  Laudohn  had  sur- 
prised the  important  fortress  of  Schweidnitz.  With  that 
fortress,  half  of  Silesia,  and  the  command  of  the  most  im- 
portant defiles  through  the  mountains,  had  been  transferred 
to  the  Austrians.  The  Russians  had  overpowered  the  King’s 
generals  in  Pomerania.  The  country  was  so  completely 
desolated  that  he  began,  by  his  own  confession,  to  look 
round  him  with  blank  despair,  unable  to  imagine  where  re- 
cruits, horses,  or  provisions  were  to  be  found. 

Just  at  this  time  two  great  events  brought  on  a complete 
change  in  the  relations  of  almost  all  the  powers  of  Europe. 
One  of  those  events  was  the  retirement  of  Mr.  Pitt  from 
office ; the  other  was  the  death  of  the  Empress  Elizabeth  of 
Russia. 

The  retirement  of  Pitt  seemed  to  be  an  omen  of  utter 
ruin  to  the  House  of  Brandenburg.  His  proud  and  vehement 
nature  was  incapable  of  anything  that  looked  like  either  fear 
or  treachery.  He  had  often  declared  that,  while  he  was  in 
power,  England  should  never  make  a peace  of  Utrecht, 
should  never,  for  any  selfish  object,  abandon  an  ally  even  in 
the  last  extremity  of  distress.  The  Continental  war  was  his 
own  war.  He  had  been  bold  enough,  he  who  in  former  times 
had  attacked,  with  irresistible  powers  of  oratory,  the  Hano  * 
verian  policy  of  Carteret,  and  the  German  subsidies  of  New- 
castle, to  d )clare  that  Hanover  ought  to  be  as  dear  to  us  a& 
Hampshire,  and  that  he  would  conquer  America  in  Germany. 
He  had  fallen  ; and  the  power  which  he  had  exercised,  not 
always  with  discretion,  but  always  with  vigor  and  genius, 
Lad  devolved  on  a favorite  who  was  the  representative  of 


Frederic  the  great. 


725 


the  Tory  party,  of  the  party  which  had  thwarted  William, 
which  had  persecuted  Marlborough,  and  which  had  given 
up  the  Catalans  to  the  vengeance  of  Philip  of  Anjou.  To 
make  peace  with  France,  to  shake  off,  with  all,  or  more  than 
all,  the  speed  compatible  with  decency,  every  Continental 
connection,  these  were  among  the  chief  objects  of  the  new 
Minister.  The  policy  then  followed  inspired  Frederic  with 
an  unjust,  but  deep  and  bitter  aversion  to  the  English  name, 
and  produced  effects  which  are  still  felt  throughout  the 
civilized  world.  To  that  policy  it  was  owing  that,  some 
years  later,  England  could  not  find  on  the  whole  Continent 
a single  ally  to  stand  by  her,  in  her  extreme  need,  against 
the  House  of  Bourbon.  To  that  policy  it  was  owing  that 
Frederic,  alienated  from  England,  was  compelled  to  connect 
himself  closely,  during  his  later  years,  with  Russia,  and  was 
induced  to  assist  in  that  great  crime,  the  fruitful  parent  of 
other  great  crimes,  the  first  partition  of  Poland. 

Scarcely  had  the  retreat  of  Mr.  Pitt  deprived  Prussia  of 
her  only  friend,  when  the  death  of  Elizabeth  produced  an 
entire  revolution  in  the  politics  of  the  North.  The  Grand 
Duke  Peter,  her  nephew,  who  now  ascended  the  Russian 
throne,  was  not  merely  free  from  the  prejudices  which  his 
aunt  had  entertained  against  Frederic,  but  was  a worshipper, 
a servile  imitator  of  the  great  King.  The  days  of  the  new 
Czar’s  government  were  few  and  evil,  but  sufficient  to  pro- 
duce a change  in  the  whole  state  of  Christendom.  He  set 
the  Prussian  prisoners  at  liberty,  fitted  them  out  decently, 
and  sent  them  back  to  their  master ; he  withdrew  his  troops 
from  the  provinces  which  Elizabeth  had  decided  on  incor- 
porating with  her  dominions ; and  he  absolved  all  those 
Prussian  subjects,  who  had  been  compelled  to  swear  fealty 
to  Russia,  from  their  engagements. 

Not  content  with  concluding  peace  on  terms  favorable 
to  Prussia,  he  solicited  rank  in  the  Prussian  service,  dressed 
himself  in  a Prussian  uniform,  wore  the  Black  Eagle  of 
Prussia  on  his  breast,  made  preparations  for  visiting  Prussia, 
in  order  to  have  an  interview  with  the  object  of  his  idolatry, 
and  actually  sent  fifteen  thousand  excellent  troops  to  rein- 
force the  shattered  army  of  Frederic.  Thus  strengthened, 
the  King  speedily  repaired  the  losses  of  the  preceding  year, 
reconquered  Silesia,  defeated  Daun  at  Buckersdorf,  invested 
and  retook  Schweidnitz,  and,  at  the  close  of  the  year,  pre- 
sented to  the  forces  of  Maria  Theresa  a front  as  formidable 
as  before  the  great  reverses  of  1759.  Before  the  end  of  the 


726  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

campaign,  his  friend,  the  emperor  Peter,  having  by  a series 
of  absurd  insults  to  the  institutions,  manners,  and  feelings 
of  his  people,  united  them  in  hostility  to  his  person  and 
government,  was  deposed  and  murdered.  The  Empress, 
who,  under  the  title  of  Catharine  the  Second,  now  assumed 
the  supreme  power,  was,  at  the  commencement  of  her 
administration,  by  no  means  partial  to  Frederic,  and  refused 
to  permit  her  troops  to  remain  under  his  command.  But 
she  observed  the  peace  made  by  her  husband ; and  Prussia 
was  no  longer  threatened  by  danger  from  the  East. 

England  and  France  at  the  same  time  paired  off  together. 
They  concluded  a treaty,  by  which  they  bound  themselves 
to  observe  neutrality  with  respect  to  the  German  war. 
Thus  the  coalitions  on  both  sides  w^ere  dissolved ; and  the 
original  enemies,  Austria  and  Prussia,  remained  alone  con- 
fronting each  other. 

Austria  had  undoubtedly  far  greater  means  than  Prussia, 
and  was  less  exhausted  by  hostilities  ; yet  it  seemed  hardly 
possible  that  Austria  could  effect  alone  what  she  had  in  vain 
attempted  to  effect  when  supported  by  France  on  the  cue 
side,  and  by  Russia  on  the  other.  Ranger  also  began  to 
menace  the  Imperial  house  from  another  quarter.  The 
Ottoman  Porte  held  threatening  language,  and  a hundred 
thousand  Turks  were  mustered  on  the  frontiers  of  Hungary. 
The  proud  and  revengeful  spirit  of  the  Empress  Queen  at 
length  gave  way;  and,  in  February,  1763,  the  peace  of 
Hubertsburg  put  an  end  to  the  conflict  which  had,  during 
seven  years,  devastated  Germany.  The  King  ceded  nothing. 
The  whole  Continent  in  arms  had  proved  unable  to  tear 
Silesia  from  that  iron  grasp. 

The  war  was  over.  Frederic  was  safe.  His  glory  was 
beyond  the  reach  of  envy.  If  he  had  not  made  conquests 
as  vast  as  those  of  Alexander,  of  Caesar,  and  of  Napoleon,  if 
he  had  not,  on  fields  of  battle,  enjoyed  the  constant  success 
of  Marlborough  and  Wellington,  he  had  yet  given  an  ex- 
ample unrivalled  in  history  of  what  capacity  and  resolution 
can  effect  against  the  greatest  superiority  of  power  and  the 
utmost  spite  of  fortune.  He  entered  Berlin  in  triumph, 
after  an  absence,  of  more  than  six  years.  The  streets  were 
brilliantly  lighted  up;  and,  as  he  passed  along  in  an  open 
carriage,  with  Ferdinand  of  Brunswick  at  his  side,  the  mul- 
titude saluted  him  with  loud  praises  and  blessings.  He  was 
moved  by  those  marks  of  attachment,  and  repeatedly  ex- 
claimed, “ Long  live  my  dear  people ! Long  live  my  chit 


FREDERIC  THE  GREAT. 


727 


drew!”  Yet,  even  in  the  midst  of  that  gay  spectacle,  he 
could  not  but  perceive  everywhere  the  traces  of  destruction 
and  decay.  The  city  had  been  more  than  once  plundered. 
The  population  had  considerably  diminished.  Berlin,  how- 
ever, had  suffered  little  wThen  compared  with  most  parts  of 
the  kingdom.  The  ruin  of  private  fortunes,  the  distress  of 
all  ranks,  was  such  as  might  appall  the  firmest  mind.  Al- 
most every  province  had  been  the  seat  of  war,  and  of  war 
conducted  with  merciless  ferocity.  Clouds  of  Croatians  had 
descended  on  Silesia.  Tens  of  thousands  of  Cossacks  had 
been  let  loose  on  Pomerania  and  Brandenburg.  The  mere 
contributions  levied  by  the  invaders  amounted,  it  was  said, 
to  more  than  a hundred  millions  of  dollars ; and  the  value 
of  what  they  extorted  was  probably  much  less  than  the  value 
of  what  they  destroyed.  The  fields  lay  uncultivated.  The 
very  seecl-corn  had  been  devoured  in  the  madness  of  hunger. 
Famine,  and  contagious  maladies  produced  by  famine,  had 
swept  away  the  herds  and  flocks;  and  there  was  reason  to 
fear  that  a great  pestilence  among  the  human  race  was  likely 
to  follow  in  the  train  of  that  tremendous  war.  Near  fif- 
teen thousand  houses  had  been  burned  to  the  ground.  The 
population  of  the  kingdom  had  in  seven  years  decreased  to 
the  frightful  extent  of  ten  per  cent.  A sixth  of  the  males 
capable  of  bearing  arms  had  actually  perished  on  the  field  of 
battle.  In  some  districts,  no  laborers,  except  women,  were 
seen  in  the  fields  at  harvest-time.  In  others,  the  traveller 
passed  shuddering  through  a succession  of  silent  villages,  in 
which  not  a single  inhabitant  remained.  The  currency  had 
been  debased;  the  authority  of  laws  and  magistrates  had 
been  suspended;  the  whole  social  system  was  deranged. 
For,  during  that  convulsive  struggle,  everything  that  was 
not  military  violence  was  anarchy.  Even  the  army  was 
disorganized.  Some  great  generals,  and  a crowd  of  excel- 
lent officers  had  fallen,  and  it  had  been  impossible  to  supply 
theii  place.  The  difficulty  of  finding  recruits  had,  towards 
the  close  of  the  war,  been  so  great,  that  selection  and  rejec- 
tion were  impossible.  Whole  battalions  were  composed  of 
deserters  or  of  prisoners.*  It  was  hardly  to  be  hoped  that 
thirty  years  of  repose  and  industry  would  repair  the  ruin 
produced  by  seven  years  of  havoc.  One  consolatory  cir- 
cumstance, indeed,  there  was.  N o debt  had  been  incurred. 
The  burdens  of  the  war  had  been  terrible,  almost  insupport- 
able ; but  no  arrear  was  left  to  embarrass  the  finances  m 
time  of  peace. 


728 


MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


Here,  for  the  present,  we  must  pause.  We  have  accom- 

Sfanied  Frederic  to  the  close  of  his  career  as  a warrior. 
\>ssibly  when  these  Memoirs  are  completed,  we  may  resume 
the  consideration  of  his  character,  and  give  some  account  of 
his  domestic  and  foreign  policy,  and  of  his  private  habits, 
during  the  many  years  of  tranquility  which  followed  the 
Seven  Years’  War. 


MADAME  D’ARBLAY.* 

( Edinburgh  Review , January , 1843.) 

Though  the  world  saw  and  heard  little  of  Madame 
D’Arblay  during  the  last  forty  years  of  her  life,  and  though 
that  little  did  not  add  to  her  fame,  there  were  thousands, 
we  believe,  who  felt  a singular  emotion  when  they  learned 
that  she  was  no  longer  among  us.  The  news  of  her  death 
carried  the  minds  of  men  back  at  one  leap  over  two  gener- 
ations, to  the  time  when  her  first  literary  triumphs  were  won. 
All  those  whom  we  had  been  accustomed  to  revere  as  in- 
tellectual patriarchs  seemed  children  when  compared  with 
her;  for  Burke  had  sate  up  all  night  to  read  her  writings,  and 
Johnson  had  pronounced  her  superior  to  Fielding,  when 
Rogers  was  still  a schoolboy,  and  Southey  still  in  petticoats. 
Yet  more  strange  did  it  seem  that  we  should  just  have  lost 
one  whose  name  had  been  widely  celebrated  before  anybody 
had  heard  of  some  illustrious  men  who,  twenty,  thirty,  or 
forty  years  ago,  were,  after  a long  and  splendid  career, 
borue  with  honor  to  the  grave.  Yet  so  it  was.  Francis 
Burney  was  at  the  height  of  fame  and  popularity  before 
Cowper  had  published  his  first  volume,  before  Porson  had 
gone  up  to  college,  before  Pitt  had  taken  his  seat  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  before  the  voice  of  Erskine  had  been 
once  heard  in  Westminster  Hall.  Since  the  appearance  of 
her  first  work,  sixty-two  years  had  passed ; and  this  inter- 
val had  been  crowded,  not  only  with  political,  but  also  with 
intellectual,  revolutions.  Thousands  of  reputations  had, 
during  that  period,  sprung  up,  bloomed,  withered,  and 

* Diary  and  Letters  of  Madam  D’Arblay.  Five  vole,  8vo,  London, 


MADAME  D’ARBLAY. 


729 


disappeared.  New  kinds  of  composition  had  come  into 
fashion,  had  got  out  of  fashion,  had  been  derided,  had 
been  forgotten.  The  fooleries  of  Della  Crusca,  and  the 
fooleries  of  Kotzebue,  had  for  a time  bewitched  the  multi 
tude,  but  had  left  no  trace  behind  them  ; nor  had  mis 
directed  genius  been  able  to  save  from  decay  the  once 
flourishing  schools  of  Godwin,  of  Darwin,  and  of  Radcliffe. 
Many  books,  written  for  temporary  effect,  had  run  through 
six  or  seven  editions  and  had  then  been  gathered  to  the 
novels  of  Afra  Behn,  and  the  epic  poems  of  Sir  Richard 
Blackmore.  Yet  the  early  works  of  Madame  D’Arblay,  in 
spite  of  the  lapse  of  years,  in  spite  of  the  change  of  manners, 
in  spite  of  the  popularity  deservedly  obtained  by  some  of 
her  rivals,  continued  to  hold  a high  place  in  the  jmblic 
esteem.  She  lived  to  be  a classic.  Time  set  on  her  fame, 
before  she  went  hence,  that  seal  which  is  seldom  set  except 
on  the  fame  of  the  departed.  Like  Sir  Condy  Rackrent  in 
the  tale,  she  survived  her  own  wake,  and  overheard  the 
judgment  of  posterity. 

Having  always  felt  a warm  and  sincere,  though  not  a 
blind  admiration  for  her  talents,  we  rejoiced  to  learn  that 
her  Diary  was  about  to  be  made  public.  Our  hopes,  it  is 
true,  were  not  unmixed  with  fears.  We  could  not  forget 
the  fate  of  the  Memoirs  of  Dr.  Burney,  which  were  published 
ten  years  ago.  That  unfortunate  book  contained  much  that 
was  curious  and  interesting.  Yet  it  was  received  with  a 
cry  of  disgust,  and  was  speedily  consigned  to  oblivion.  The 
truth  is,  that  it  deserved  its  doom.  It  was  written  in 
Madame  D’Arblay’s  later  style,  the  worst  style  that  has  ever 
been  known  among  men.  No  genius,  no  information,  could 
save  from  proscription  a book  so  written.  We,  therefore, 
opened  the  Diary  with  no  small  anxiety,  trembling  lest  we 
should  light  upon  some  of  that  peculiar  rhetoric  which  de- 
forms almost  every  page  of  the  Memoirs,  and  which  it  is 
impossible  to  read  without  a sensation  made  up  of  mirth, 
shame,  and  loathing.  We  soon,  however,  discovered  to  our 
great  delight  that  this  Diary  was  kept  before  Madame 
D’Arblay  became  eloquent.  It  is,  for  the  most  part,  written 
in  her  earliest  and  best  manner,  in  true  woman’s  English, 
clear,  natural  and  lively.  The  two  works  are  lying  side  by 
side  before  us ; and  we  never  turn  from  the  Memoirs  to  the 
Diary  without  a sense  of  relief.  The  difference  is  as  great 
as  the  difference  between  the  atmosphere  of  a perfumer’s 
shop,  fetid  with  lavender  water  and  jasmine  soap,  and  the 


730  MACAULAY* S MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

air  of  a heath  on  a fine  morning  in  May.  Both  works  ought 
to  be  consulted  by  every  person  who  wishes  to  be  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  history  of  our  literature  and  our  manners. 
But  to  read  the  Diary  is  a pleasure ; to  read  the  Memoirs 
will  always  be  a task. 

We  may,  perhaps,  afford  some  harmless  amusement  to 
our  readers,  if  we  attempt,  with  the  help  of  these  two  books, 
to  give  them  an  account  of  the  most  important  years  of 
Madame  D’Arblay’s  life. 

She  was  descended  from  a family  which  bore  the  name 
of  Macburney,  and  which,  though  probably  of  Irish  origin, 
had  been  long  settled  in  Shropshire,  and  was  possessed  of 
considerable  estates  in  that  county.  Unhappily,  many  years 
before  her  birth,  the  Macburneys  began,  as  if  of  set  purpose 
and  in  a * spirit  of  determined  rivalry,  to  expose  and  ruin 
themselves.  The  heir  apparent,  Mr.  James  Macburney,  of- 
fended his  father  by  making  a runaway  match  with  an  actress 
from  Goodman’s  Fields.  The  old  gentleman  could  devise 
no  more  judicious  mode  of  wreaking  vengeance  on  his  un- 
dutiful  boy  than  by  marrying  the  cook.  The  cook  gave 
birth  to  a son  named  Joseph,  who  succeeded  to  all  the  lands 
of  the  family,  while  James  was  cut  off  with  a shilling.  The 
favorite  son,  however,  was  so  extravagant,  that  he  soon  be- 
came as  poor  as  his  disinherited  brother.  Both  were  forced 
to  earn  their  bread  by  their  labor.  Joseph  turned  dancing 
master,  and  settled  in  Norfolk.  James  struck  off  the  Mac 
from  the  beginning  of  his  name,  and  set  up  as  a portrait  painter 
at  Chester.  Here  he  had  a son  named  Charles,  well  known 
as  the  author  of  the  History  of  Music,  and  as  the  father  of 
two  remarkable  children,  of  a son  distinguished  by  learning, 
and  of  a daughter  still  more  honorably  distinguished  by 
genius. 

Charles  early  showed  a taste  for  that  art,  of  which,  at  a 
later  period,  he  became  the  historian.  He  was  apprenticed 
to  a celebrated  musician  in  London,  and  applied  himself  to 
study  with  vigor  and  success.  He  soon  found  a kind  and 
munificent  patron  in  Fulk  Greville,  a highborn  and  highbred 
man,  who  seems  to  have  had  in  large  measure  all  the  accom- 
plishments and  all  the  follies,  all  the  virtues  and  all  the 
vices,  which,  a hundred  years  ago,  were  considered  as  mak- 
ing up  the  character  of  a fine  gentleman.  Under  such  pro- 
tection, the  young  artist  had  every  prospect  of  a brilliant 
career  in  the  capital.  But  his  health  failed.  It  became 
necessary  for  him  to  retreat  from  the  smoke  and  river  fog 


MADAME  d’aKJBLAY. 


731 


of  London,  to  the  pure  air  of  the  coast.  He  accepted  the 
place  of  organist,  at  Lynn,  and  settled  at  that  town  with  a 
young  lady  who  had  recently  become  his  wife. 

At  Lynn,  in  June,  1752,  Frances  Burney  was  born. 
Nothing  in  her  childhood* indicated  that  she  would,  while 
still  a young  woman,  have  secured  for  herself  an  honorable 
and  permanent  place  among  English  writers.  She  was  shy 
and  silent.  Her  brothers  and  sisters  called  her  a dunce,  and 
not  without  some  show  of  reason ; for  at  eight  years  old  she 
did  not  know  her  letters. 

In  1760,  Mr.  Burney  quitted  Lynn  for  London,  and  took 
a house  in  Poland  Street ; a situation  which  had  been  fash- 
ionable in  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne,  but  which,  since  that 
time,  had  been  deserted  by  most  of  its  wealthy  and  noble 
inhabitants.  lie  afterwards  resided  in  St.  Martin’s  Street, 
on  the  south  side  of  Leicester  Square.  His  house  there  is 
still  wrell  known,  and  will  continue  to  be  well  known  as  long 
as  our  island  retains  any  trace  of  civilization  ; for  it  was  the 
dwelling  of  Newton,  and  the  square  turret  which  dis- 
tinguishes it  from  all  the  surrounding  buildings  was  New- 
ton’s observatory. 

Mr.  Burney  at  once  obtained  as  many  pupils  of  the  most 
respectable  description  as  he  had  time  to  attend,  and  was 
thus  enabled  to  support  his  family,  modestly  indeed,  and 
frugally,  but  in  comfort  and  independence.  His  professional 
merit  obtained  for  him  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Music  from 
the  University  of  Oxford  ; and  his  works  on  subjects  con- 
nected with  his  art  gained  for  him  a place,  respectable, 
though  certainly  not  eminent,  among  men  of  letters. 

The  progress  of  the  mind  of  Frances  Burney,  from  her 
ninth  to  her  twenty-fifth  year,  well  deserves  to  be  recorded. 
When  her  education  had  proceeded  no  further  than  the 
hornbook,  she  lost  her  mother,  and  thenceforward  she  edu- 
cated herself.  Her  father  appears  to  have  been  as  bad  a 
father  as  a very  honest,  affectionate,  and  sweet  tempered 
man  can  well  be.  He  loved  his  daughter  dearly;  but  it 
never  seems  to  have  occurred  to  him  that  a parent  has  other 
duties  to  perform  to  children  than  that  of  fondling  them. 
It  would  indeed  have  been  impossible  for  him  to  superin- 
tend their  education  himself.  His  professional  engagements 
occupied  him  all  day.  At  seven  in  the  morning  he  began 
to  attend  his  pupils,  and,  when  London  was  full,  was  some- 
times employed  in  teaching  till  eleven  at  night.  He  was 
often  forced  to  carry  in  his  pocket  a tin  box  of  sandwiches, 


732  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

and  a bottle  of  wine  and  water,  on  which  he  dined  in  a 
hackney  coach,  while  hurrying  from  one  scholar  to  another. 
Two  of  his  daughters  he  sent  to  a seminary  at  Paris  $ but 
he  imagined  that  Frances  would  run  some  risk  of  being  per- 
verted from  the  Protestant  faith  if  she  were  educated  in  a 
Catholic  country,  and  he  therefore  kept  her  at  home.  No 
governess,  no  teacher  of  any  art  or  of  any  language,  was 
provided  for  her.  But  one  of  her  sisters  showed  her  how 
to  write ; and,  before  she  was  fourteen,  she  began  to  find 
pleasure  in  reading. 

It  was  not,  however,  by  reading  that  her  intellect  was 
formed.  Indeed,  when  her  best  novels  were  produced,  her 
knowledge  of  books  was  very  small.  When  at  the  height 
of  her  fame,  she  was  unacquainted  with  the  most  celebrated 
works  of  Voltaire  and  Moliere;  and,  what  seems  more  ex- 
traordinary, had  never  heard  or  seen  a line  of  Churchill, 
who,  when  she  w^as  a girl,  was  the  most  popular  of  living 
poets.  It  is  particularly  deserving  of  observation  that  she 
appears  to  have  been  by  no  means  a novel  reader.  Her 
father’s  library  vras  large ; and  he  had  admitted  into  it  so 
many  books  wdnch  rigid  moralists  generally  exclude  that  he 
felt  uneasy,  as  he  afterwards  owned,  wrhen  Johnson  began 
to  examine  the  shelves.  But  in  the  w hole  collection  there 
w^as  only  a single  novel,  Fielding’s  Amelia. 

An  education,  however,  wdiich  to  most  girls  would  have 
been  useless,  but  which  suited  Fanny’s  mind  better  than 
elaborate  culture,  w^as  in  constant  progress  during  her  pas- 
sage from  childhood  to  wromanhood.  The  great  book  of 
human  nature  w^as  turned  over  before  her.  Her  father’s 
social  ^position  wras  very  peculiar.  He  belonged  in  fortune 
and  station  to  the  middle  class.  His  daughters  seemed  to 
have  been  suffered  to  mix  freely  writh  those  whom  butlers 
and  wraiting  maids  call  vulgar.  We  are  told  that  they  were 
in  the  habit  of  playing  wTith  the  children  of  a vdgmakerwho 
lived  in  the  adjoining  house.  Yet  few  nobles  could  assemble 
in  the  most  stately  mansions  of  Grosvenor  Square  or  Saint 
James’s  Square,  a society  so  various  and  so  brilliant  as  wTas 
sometimes  to  be  found  in  Dr.  Burney’s  cabin.  His  mind, 
though  not  very  powerful  or  capacious,  was  restlessly  active  ; 
and,  in  the  intervals  of  his  professional  pursuits,  he  had 
contrived  to  lay  up  much  miscellaneous  information.  His 
attainments,  the  suavity  of  his  temper,  and  the  gentle 
simplicity  of  his  manners,  had  obtained  for  him  ready 
admission  to  the  first  literary  circles.  While  he  was  still 


MADAME  D ARBLAY 


7SS 


Lynn,  he  had  won  Johnson’s  heart  by  sounding  with  honest 
zeal  the  praises  of  the  English  Dictionary.  In  London  the 
two  friends  met  frequently,  and  agreed  most  harmoniously. 
One  tie,  indeed,  was  wanting  to  their  mutual  attachment. 
Burney  loved  his  own  art  passionately  ; and  Johnson  just 
knew  the  bell  of  Saint  Clement’s  church  from  the  organ. 
They  had,  however,  many  topics  in  common  ; and  on  winter 
nights  their  conversations  were  sometimes  prolonged  till  the 
fire  had  gone  out,  and  the  candles  had  burned  away  to  the 
wicks.  Burney’s  admiration  of  the  powers  which  had 
produced  Rasselas  and  The  Rambler  bordered  on  idolatry. 
Johnson,  on  the  other  hand,  condescended  to  growl  out  that 
Burney  was  an  honest  fellow,  a man  whom  it  was  impossible 
not  to  like. 

Garrick,  too,  was  a frequent  visitor  in  Poland  Street  and 
Saint  Martin’s  Lane.  That  wonderful  actor  loved  the 
society  of  children,  partly  from  good  nature,  and  partly 
from  vanity.  The  ecstasies  of  mirth  and  terror,  which  his 
gestures  and  play  of  countenance  never  failed  to  produce  in 
a nursery,  flattered  him  quite  as  much  as  the  applause  of 
mature  critics.  He  often  exhibited  all  his  powers  of  mim- 
icry for  the  amusement  of  the  little  Burneys,  awed  them  by 
shuddering  and  crouching  as  if  he  saw  a ghost,  scared  them 
by  raving  like  a maniac  in  St.  Luke’s,  and  then  at  once 
became  an  auctioneer,  a chimneysweeper,  or  an  old  woman, 
and  made  them  laugh  till  the  tears  ran  down  their  cheeks. 

But  it  would  be  tedious  to  recount  the  names  of  all  the 
men  of  letters  and  artists  whom  Frances  Burney  had  an 
opportunity  of  seeing  and  hearing.  Colman,  Twining, 
Harris,  Baretti,  Hawkesworth,  Reynolds,  Barry,  were  among 
those  who  occasionally  surrounded  the  tea  table  and  supper 
tray  at  his  father’s  modest  dwelling.  This  was  not  all.  The 
distinction  which  Dr.  Burney  had  acquired  as  a musician, 
and  as  the  historian  of  music,  attracted  to  his  house  the  most 
eminent  musicial  performers  of  that  age.  The  greatest 
Italian  singers  who  visited  England  regarded  him  as  the 
dispenser  of  fame  in  their  art,  and  exerted  themselves  to 
obtain  his  suffrage.  Pachierotti  became  his  intimate  friend. 
The  rapacious  Agujari,  who  sang  for  nobody  else  under  fifty 
pounds  an  air,  sang  her  best  for  Dr.  Burney  without  a fee ; 
and  in  the  company  of  Dr.  Burney  even  the  haughty  and 
eccentric  Gabrielli  constrained  herself  to  behave  with  civil- 
ity. It  was  thus  in  his  power  to  give,  with  scarcely  any 
expense,  concerts  equal  to  those  of  the  aristocracy.  On 


734  MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

such  occasions  the  quiet  street  in  which  he  lived  was  blocked 
up  by  coroneted  chariots,  and  his  little  drawingroom  was 
crowded  with  peers,  peeresses,  ministers  and  ambassadors. 
On  one  evening,  of  which  we  happen  to  have  a full  account, 
there  were  present  Lord  Mulgrave,  Lord  Bruce,  Lord  and 
Lady  Edgecumbe,  Lord  Barrington  from  the  War  Office, 
Lord  Sandwich  from  the  Admiralty,  Lord  Ashburnham, 
with  his  gold  key  dangling  from  his  pocket,  and  the  French 
Ambassador,  M.  De  Guignes,  renowned  for  his  fine  person 
and  for  his  success  in  gallantry.  But  the  great  show  of  the 
night  was  the  Russian  ambassador,  Count  Oiioff,  whose 
gigantic  figure  was  all  in  a blaze  with  jewels,  and  in  whose 
demeanor  the  untamed  ferocity  of  the  Scythian  might  be 
discerned  through  a thin  varnish  of  French  jmliteness.  As 
he  stalked  about  the  small  parlor  brushing  the  ceiling  with  his 
toupee,  the  girls  whispered  to  each  other,  with  mingled 
admiration  and  horror,  that  he  vras  the  favored  lover  of  his 
august  mistress  ; that  he  had  borne  the  chief  part  in  the 
revolution  to  which  she  owed  her  throne  ; and  that  his  huge 
hands,  now  glittering  wTith  diamond  rings,  had  given  the 
last  squeeze  to  the  windpipe  of  her  unfortunate  husband. 

With  such  illustrious  guests  as  these  were  mingled  all  the 
most  remarkable  specimens  of  the  race  of  lions,  a kind  of 
game  which  is  hunted  in  London  every  spring  with  more 
than  Meltonian  ardor  and  perseverance.  Bruce  vTho  had 
washed  down  steaks  cut  from  living  oxen  with  water  from 
the  fountains  of  the  Nile,  came  to  swagger  and  talk  about 
his  travels.  Omai  lisped  broken  English,  and  made  all  the 
assembled  musicians  hold  their  ears  by  howling  Otaheitean 
love  songs,  such  as  those  with  which  Oberea  charmed  her 
Opano. 

With  the  literary  and  fashionable  society,  which  oc- 
casionally met  under  Dr.  Burney’s  roof,  Frances  can  scarcely 
be  said  to  have  mingled.  She  was  not  a musician,  and  could 
therefore  bear  no  part  in  the  concerts.  She  was  shy  almost 
to  awkwardness,  and  scarcely  ever  joined  in  the  conversa- 
tion. The  slightest  remark  from  a stranger  disconcerted 
her ; and  even  the  old  friends  of  her  father  who  tried  to 
draw  her  out  could  seldom  extract  more  than  a Yes  or  a 
No.  Her  figure  was  small,  her  face  not  distinguished  by 
beauty.  She  was  therefore  suffered  to  withdraw  quietly  to 
the  background,  and,  unobserved  herself,  to  observe  all  that 
passed.  Her  nearest  relations  were  aware  that  she  had  good 
sense,  but  seem  not  to  have  suspected  that,  under  her  demure 


MADAME  d’aEBLAY. 


735 


and  bashful  deportment,  were  concealed  a fertile  invention 
and  a keen  sense  of  the  ridiculous.  She  had  not,  it  is  true, 
an  eye  for  the  fine  shades  of  characters,  but  every  marked 
peculiarity  instantly  caught  her  notice  and  remained  en- 
graven on  her  imagination.  Thus,  wThile  still  a girl,  she  had 
laid  up  such  a store  of  materials  for  fiction  as  few  of  those 
who  mix  much  in  the  world  are  able  to  accumulate  during 
a long  life.  She  had  watched  and  listened  to  people  o£ 
every  class,  from  princes  and  great  officers  of  state  down  to 
artists  living  in  garrets,  and  poets  familiar  with  subter- 
ranean cookshops.  Hundreds  of  remarkable  persons  had 
passed  in  review  before  her,  English,  French,  German, 
Italian,  lords  and  fiddlers,  deans  of  cathedrals  and  managers 
of  theatres,  travellers  leading  about  newly  caught  savages, 
and  singing  women  escorted  by  deputy  husbands. 

So  strong  was  the  impression  made  on  the  mind  of 
Frances  by  the  society  which  she  was  in  the  habit  of  seeing 
and  hearing,  that  she  began  to  write  little  fictitious  narra- 
tives as  soon  as  she  could  use  her  pen  with  ease,  which,  as 
we  have  said,  was  not  very  early.  Her  sisters  wrcre  amused 
by  her  stories  ; but  Dr.  Burney  knew  nothing  of  their  ex- 
istence ; and  in  another  quarter  her  literary  propensities 
met  with  serious  discouragement.  When  she  was  fifteen 
her  father  took  a second  wife.  The  new  Mrs.  Burney  soon 
found  out  that  her  stepdaughter  was  fond  of  scribbling,  and 
delivered  several  goodnatured  lectures  on  the  subject.  The 
advice  no  doubt  was  well  meant,  and  might  have  been  given 
oy  the  most  judicious  friend  ; for  at  that  time,  from  causes 
to  which  we  may  hereafter  advert,  nothing  could  be  more 
disadvantageous  to  a young  lady  than,  to  be  known  as  a 
novel  writer.  Frances  yielded,  relinquished  her  favorite 
pursuit,  and  made  a bonfire  of  all  her  manuscripts.  * 

She  now  hemmed  and  stitched  from  breakfast  to  dinner 
with  scrupulous  regularity.  But  the  dinners  of  that  time 
were  early ; and  the  afternoon  was  her  own.  Though  she 
had  given  up  novelwriting,  she  was  still  fond  of  using  her 
pen.  She  began  to  keep  a diary,  and  she  corresponded 
largely  wuth  a person  who  seems  to  have  had  the  chief  share 
in  the  formation  of  her  mind.  This  was  Samuel  Crisp,  an 
old  friend  of  her  father.  His  name,  well  known,  near  a 

♦There  is  some  difficulty  here  as  to  the  chronology.  “This  sacrifice,”  says 
the  editor  of  the  Diary,  “was  made  in  the  young  authoress’s  fifteenth  year.” 
This  could  not  be  ; for  the  sacrifice  was  the  effect,  according  to  the  editor’s  own 
showing,  of  the  remonstrances  of  the  second  Mrs.  Burney  ; and  Frances  was  in 
hex  ei*teei*th  year  when  he?  father’s  second  marriage  took  place. 


736  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

century  ago,  in  the  most  splendid  circles  of  London,  haa 
long  been  forgotten.  His  history  is,  however,  so  interesting 
and  instructive,  that  it  tempts  us  to  venture  on  a digres- 
sion. 

Long  before  Frances  Burney  was  born,  Mr.  Crisp  had 
made  his  entrance  into  the  world  with  every  advantage, 
lie  was  well  connected  and  well  educated.  His  face  and 
figure  were  conspicuously  handsome ; his  manners  were 
polished  ; his  fortune  was  easy ; his  character  was  without 
stain  ; he  lived  in  the  best  society ; he  had  read  much  ; he 
talked  well ; his  taste  in  literature,  music,  painting,  archi- 
tecture, sculpture,  was  held  in  high  esteem.  Nothing  that 
the  world  can  give  seemed  to  be  wanting  in  his  happiness 
and  respectability,  except  that  lie  should  understand  the. 
limits  of  his  powers,  and  should  not  throw  away  distinctions 
which  were  within  his  reach  in  pursuit  of  distinctions  which 
were  unattainable. 

“ It  is  an  uncontrolled  truth,”  says  Swift,  “ that  no 
man  ever  made  an  ill  figure  who  understood  his  own  talents, 
nor  a good  one  who  mistook  them.”  Every  day  brings 
with  it  fresh  illustrations  of  this  weighty  saying ; but  the 
best  commentary  that  we  can  remember  is  the  history 
of  Samuel  Crisp.  Men  like  him  have  their  proper  place, 
and  it  is  a most  important  one,  in  the  Commonwealth  of 
Letters.  It  is  by  the  judgment  of  such  men  that  the  rank 
of  authors  is  finally  determined.  It  is  neither  to  the  multi- 
tude, nor  to  the  few  who  are  gifted  with  great  creative 
genius,  that  we  are  to  look  for  sound  critical  decisions. 
The  multitude,  unacquainted  with  the  best  models,  are  cap- 
tivated by  whatever  stuns  and  dazzles  them.  They  deserted 
Mrs.  Siddorjs  to  run  after  Master  Betty  ; and  they  now  pre- 
fer, we  have  no  doubt,  Jack  Sheppard  to  Yon  Artevelde. 
A man  of  great  original  genius,  on  the  other  hand,  a man 
who  has  attained  the  mastery  in  some  high  walk  of  art,  is 
by  no  means  to  be  implicitly  trusted  as  a judge  of  the  per- 
formance of  others.  The  erroneous  decisions  pronounced 
by  such  mea  are  without  number.  It  is  commonly  supposed 
that  jealoufy  makes  them  unjust.  But  a more  creditable 
explanation  may  easily  be  found.  The  very  excellence  of 
a work  shews  that  some  of  the  faculties  of  the  author  have 
been  developed  at  the  expense  of  the  rest ; for  it  is  not 
given  to  the  human  intellect  to  expand  itself  widely  in  all 
directions  at  once,  and  to  be  at  the  same  time  gigantic  and 
well  proportioned.  Whoever  becomes  pre-eminent  in  any 


MADAME  d’arBLAY. 


737 


art,  nay,  in  any  style  of  art,  generally  does  so  by  devoting 
himself  with  intense  and  exclusive  enthusiasm  to  the  pur- 
suit of  one  kind  of  excellence.  His  perception  of  other 
kinds  of  excellence  is  therefore  too  often  impaired.  Out  of 
his  own  department  he  praises  and  blames  at  random,  and 
is  far  less  to  be  trusted  than  the  mere  connoisseur,  who  pro- 
duces nothing,  and  whose  business  is  only  to  judge  and  en- 
joy. One  painter  is  distinguished  by  his  exquisite  finishing, 
lie  toils  day  after  day  to  bring  the  veins  of  a cabbage  leaf, 
the  folds  of  a lace  veil,  the  wrinkles  in  an  old  woman’s  face, 
nearer  and  nearer  to  perfection.  In  the  time  which  lie 
employs  on  a square  foot  of  canvas,  a master  of  a different 
order  covers  the  wall  of  a palace  with  gods  burying  giants 
under  mountains,  or  makes  the  cupola  of  a church  alive 
with  seraphim  and  martyrs.  The  more  fervent  the  passion 
of  each  of  these  artists  for  his  art,  the  higher  the  merit  of 
each  in  his  own  line,  the  more  unlikely  it  is  that  they  will 

t’ustly  appreciate  each  other.  Many  persons  who  never 
landled  a pencil  probably  do  far  more  justice  to  Michael 
Angelo  than  would  have  been  done  by  Gerard  Douw,  and 
far  more  justice  to  Gerard  Douw  than  would  have  been 
done  by  Michael  Angelo. 

It  is  the  same  with  literature.  Thousands,  who  have  no 
gpark  of  the  genius  of  Dryden  or  Wordsworth,  do  to  Dry- 
den  the  justice  which  has  never  been  done  by  Wordsworth, 
and  to  Wordsworth  the  justice  which,  we  suspect,  would 
never  have  been  done  by  Dryden.  Gray,  Johnson,  Richard- 
son, Fielding,  are  all  highly  esteemed  by  the  great  body  of 
intelligent  and  well  informed  men.  But  Gray  could  see  no 
merit  in  Rasselas ; and  Johnson  could  see  no  merit  in  the 
Bard.  Fielding  thought  Richardson  a solemn  prig;  and 
Richardson  perpetually  expressed  contempt  and  disgust  for 
Fielding’s  lowness. 

Mr.  Crisp  seems,  as  far  as  we  can  judge,  to  have  been  a 
man  eminently  qualified  for  the  useful  office  of  a connois- 
seur. His  talents  and  knowledge  fitted  him  to  appreciate 
justly  almost  every  species  of  intellectual  superiority.  As 
an  adviser  he  was  inestimable.  -Nay,  he  might  probably 
have  held  a respectable  rank  as  a writer,  if  he  would  have 
confined  himself  to  some  department  of  literature  in  which 
nothing  more  than  sense,  taste,  and  reading  was  required. 
Unhappily  he  set  his  heart  on  being  a great  poet,  wrote  a 
tragedy  in  five  acts  on  the  death  of  Virginia,  and  offered  it 
lo  Garrick,  who  was  his  personal  friend.  Garrick  read. 
Von.  II—  47  ^ 


738  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  waitings. 

shook  his  head,  and  expressed  a doubt  whether  it  would  be 
wise  in  Mr.  Crisp  to  stake  a reputation,  which  stood  high, 
on  the  success  of  such  a piece.  But  the  author,  blinded  by 
ambition,  set  in  motion  a machinery  such  as  none  could  long 
resist.  His  intercessors  were  the  most  eloquent  man  and 
the  most  lovely  woman  of  that  generation.  Pitt  was  induced 
te  read  Virginia,  and  to  pronounce  it  excellent.  Lady  Cov- 
entry, with  fingers  which  might  have  furnished  a model  to 
sculptors,  forced  the  manuscript  into  the  reluctant  hand  of 
the  manager;  and,  in  the  year  1754,  the  play  was  brought 
forward. 

Nothing  that  skill  or  friendship  could  do  was  omitted. 
Garrick  wrote  both  prologue  and  epilogue.  The  zealous 
friends  of  the  author  filled  every  box ; and,  by  their  strenu- 
ous exertions,  the  life  of  the  play  was  prolonged  during  ten 
nights.  But,  though  there  was  no  clamorous  reprobation,  it 
was  universally  felt  that  the  attempt  had  failed.  When 
Virginia  was  printed,  the  public  disappointment  was  even 
greater  than  at  the  representation.  The  critics,  the  Monthly 
lieviewers  in  particular,  fell  on  plot,  characters,  and  diction 
without  mercy,  but,  we  fear,  not  without  justice.  W e have 
never  met  with  a copy  of  the  play  ; but,  if  we  may  judge 
from  the  scene  which  is  extracted  in  the  Gentleman’s  Maga- 
zine, and  which  does  not  appear  to  have  been  malevolently 
selected,  we  should  say  that  nothing  but  the  acting  of  Gar- 
rick, and  the  partiality  of  the  audience,  could  have  saved  so 
feeble  and  unnatural  a drama  from  instant  damnation. 

The  ambition  of  the  poet  was  still  unsubdued.  When 
the  London  season  closed,  he  applied  himself  vigorously  to 
the  work  of  removing  blemishes.  He  does  not  seem  to  have 
suspected,  what  we  are  strongly  inclined  to  suspect,  that  the 
whole  piece  was  one  blemish,  and  that  the  passages  which 
were  meant  to  be  fine,  were,  in  truth,  bursts  of  that  tame 
extravagance  into  which  writers  fall,  when  they  set  them- 
selves to  be  sublime  and  pathetic  in  spite  of  nature.  He 
omitted,  added,  retouched,  and  flattered  himself  with  hopes 
of  a complete  success  in  the  following  year;  but  in  the  fol- 
lowing year,  Garrick  showed  no  disposition  to  bring  the 
amended  tragedy  on  the  stage.  Solicitation  and  remon- 
strance were  tried  in  vain.  Lady  Coventry,  drooping  under 
that  malady  which  seems  ever  to  select  what  is  loveliest  for 
its  prey,  could  render  no  assistance.  The  manager’s  Ian* 
guage  was  civilly  evasive  ; but  his  resolution  was  inflexible. 

Crisp  had  committed  a great  error ; but  he  had  escaped 


MADAME  D ARBLAY. 


with  a very  slight  penance.  His  play  had  not  been  hooted 
from  the  boards.  It  had,  on  the  contrary,  been  butter  re- 
ceived than  many  very  estimable  performances  have  been, 
than  Johnson’s  Irene,  for  example,  or  Goldsmith’s  Good- 
natured  Man.  Had  Crisp  been  wise,  he  would  have  thought 
himself  happy  in  having  purchased  self-knowledge  so  cheap. 
He  would  have  relinquished,  without  vain  repinings,  the 
hope  of  poetical  distinction,  and  would  have  turned  to  the 
many  sources  of  happiness  which  he  still  possessed.  Had 
he  been,  on  the  other  hand,  an  unfeeling  and  unblushing 
dunce,  he  would  have  gone  on  writing  scores  of  bad  trage- 
dies in  defiance  of  censure  and  derision.  But  he  had  too  • 
much  sense  to  risk  a second  defeat,  yet  too  little  sense  to 
bear  his  first  defeat  like  a man.  The  fatal  delusion  that  he 
was  a great  dramatist,  had  taken  firm  possession  of  his  mind. 
Ilis  failure  he  attributed  to  every  cause  except  the  true  one. 
lie  complained  of  the  ill  will  of  Garrick,  who  appears  to 
have  done  for  the  play  everything  that  ability  and  zeal  could 
do,  and  who,  from  selfish  motives,  would,  of  course,  have 
been  well  pleased  if  Virginia  had  been  as  successful  as  the 
Beggar’s  Opera.  Nay,  Crisp  complained  of  the  languor 
of  the  friends  whose  partiality  had  given  him  three  benefit 
nights  to  which  he  had  no  claim.  He  complained  of  the  in- 
justice of  the  spectators,  when,  in  truth,  he  ought  to  have 
been  grateful  for  their  unexampled  patience.  He  lost  his 
temper  and  spirits,  and  became  a cynic  and  a hater  of  man- 
kind. From  London  he  retired  to  Hampton,  and  from 
Hampton  to  a solitary  and  long  deserted  mansion,  built  on 
a common  in  one  of  the  wildest  tracts  of  Surrey.  No  road, 
not  even  a sheepwalk,  connected  his  lonely  dwelling  with 
the  abodes  of  men.  The  place  of  his  retreat  was  strictly 
concealed  from  his  old  associates.  In  the  spring  he  some- 
times emerged,  and  was  seen  at  exhibitions  and  concerts  in 
London.  But  he  soon  disappeared,  and  hid  himself,  with 
no  society  but  his  books,  in  his  dreary  hermitage.  He  sur- 
vived his  failure  about  thirty  years.  A new  generation 
sprang  up  around  him.  No  memory  of  his  bad  verses  re* 
mained  among  men.  His  very  name  was  forgotten.  How 
completely  the  world  had  lost  sight  of  him,  will  appear  from 
a single  circumstance.  We  looked  for  him  in  a copious 
Dictionary  of  Dramatic  Authors  published  while  he  was 
still  alive,  and  we  found  only  that  Mr.  Henry  Crisp,  of  the 
Custom  House,  had  written  a play  called  Virginia,  acted  in 
1754.  To  the  last,  however,  the  unhappy  man  continued  to 


740  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

brood  over  the  injustice  of  the  manager  and  the  pit,  and 
tried  to  convince  himself  and  others  that  he  had  missed  the 
highest  literary  honors,  only  because  he  had  omitted  some 
fine  passages  in  compliance  with  Garrick’s  judgment.  Alas, 
for  human  nature,  that  the  wounds  of  vanity  should  smart 
and  bleed  so  much  longer  than  the  wounds  of  affectirn  ! 
Few  people,  we  believe,  whose  nearest  friends  and  relations 
died  in  1754,  had  any  acute  feeling  of  the  loss  in  1782. 
Dear  sisters,  and  favorite  daughters,  and  brides  snatched 
away  before  the  honeymoon  was  passed,  had  been  forgotten, 
or  were  remembered  only  with  a tranquil  regret.  But 
Samuel  Crisp  was  still  mourning  for  his  tragedy,  liKe  Rachel 
weeping  for  her  children,  and  would  not  be  comforted. 
“ Never,”  such  was  his  language  twenty-eight  years  after  his 
disaster,  “never  give  up  or  alter  a tittle  unless  it  perfectly 
coincides  with  your  own  inward  feelings.  I can  say  this  to 
my  sorrow  and  my  cost.  But  mum ! ” Soon  after  these 
words  were  written,  his  life,  a life  which  might  have  been 
eminently  useful  and  happy,  ended  in  the  same  gloom  in 
which,  during  more  than  a quarter  of  a century,  it  had  been 
passed.  We  have  thought  it  worth  while  to  rescue  from 
oblivion  this  curious  fragment  of  literary  history.  It  seems 
to  us  at  once  ludicrous,  melancholy,  and  full  of  instruction. 

Crisp  was  an  old  and  very  intimate  friend  of  the  Bur- 
neys. To  them  alone  was  confided  the  name  of  the  desolate 
old  hall  in  which  he  hid  himself  like  a wild  beast  in  a den. 
For  them  were  reserved  such  remains  of  his  humanity  as 
had  survived  the  failure  of  his  play.  Frances  Burney  he  re- 
garded as  his  daughter.  He  called  her  his  Pannikin  ; and 
she  in  return  called  him  her  dear  Daddy.  In  truth,  he 
seems  to  have  done  much  more  than  her  real  parents  for  the 
development  of  her  intellect ; for  though  he  was  a bad  poet, 
he  was  a scholar,  a thinker,  and  an  excellent  counsellor.  He 
was  particularly  fond  of  the  Concerts  in  Poland  Street. 
They  had,  indeed,  been  commenced  at  his  suggestion,  and 
when  he  visited  London  he  constantly  attended  them.  But 
when  li 3 grew  old,  and  when  gout,  brought  on  partly  by 
mental  irritation,  confined  him  to  his  retreat,  he  was 
desirous  of  having  a glimpse  of  that  gay  and  brilliant  world 
from  which  he  v:as  exiled,  and  lie  pressed  Fannikin  to  send 
him  full  accounts  of  her  father’s  evening  parties.  A few  of 
her  letters  to  him  have  been  published  ; and  it  is  impossible 
to  read  them  without  discerning  in  them  all  the  powers 
which  afterwards  produced  Evelina  and  Cecilia,  the  quick 


MAPAME  D ARBLAT, 


741 


ness  in  catching  every  odd  peculiarity  of  character  and 
manner,  the  skill  in  grouping,  the  humor,  often  richly  com;.c 
sometimes  even  farcical. 

Fanny’s  propensity  to  novelwriting  had  for  a time  been 
kept  down.  It  now  rose  up  stronger  than  ever.  Tho 
heroes  and  heroines  of  the  tales  which  had  perished  in  the 
flames,  were  still  present  to  the  eye  of  her  mind.  Ono 
favorite  story,  in  particular,  haunted  her  imagination.  It 
was  about  a certain  Caroline  Evelyn,  a beautiful  damsel  who 
made  an  unfortunate  love  match,  and  died,  leaving  an  infant 
daughter,  Frances  began  to  image  to  herself  the  various 
scenes,  tragic  and  comic,  through  which  the  poor  motherless 
girl,  highly  connected  on  one  side,  meanly  connected  on  tho 
other,  might  have  to  pass.  A crowd  of  unreal  things,  good 
and  bad,  grave  and  ludicrous,  surrounded  the  pretty,  timid, 
young  orphan  ; a coarse  sea  captain  ; an  ugly  insolent  fop, 
blazing  in  a superb  court  dress ; another  fop,  as  ugly  and  as 
Insolent,  but  lodged  on  Snow  Hill,  and  tricked  out  in  second- 
hand finery  for  the  Hampstead  ball;  an  old  woman,  all 
wrinkles  and  rouge,  flirting  her  fan  with  the  air  of  a miss  of 
seventeen,  and  screaming  in  a dialect  made  up  of  vulgar 
French  and  vulgar  English ; a poet  lean  and  ragged,  with  a 
broad  Scotch  accent.  By  degrees  these  shadows  acquired 
stronger  and  stronger  consistence  ; the  impulse  which  urged 
Frances  to  write  became  irresistible;  and  the  result  was  the 
history  of  Evelina. 

Then  came,  naturally  enough,  a wish,  mingled  with  many 
fears,  to  appear  before  the  public;  for,  timid  as  Frances 
was,  and  bashful,  and  altogether  unaccustomed  to  hear  her 
own  praises,  it  is  clear  that  she  wanted  neither  a strong 
passion  for  distinction,  nor  a just  confidence  in  her  own 
powers.  Her  scheme  was  to  become,  if  possible,  a candi- 
date for  fame  without  running  any  risk  of  disgrace.  She 
had  not  money  to  bear  the  expense  of  printing.  It  was  there- 
fore necessary  that  some  bookseller  should  be  induced  to 
take  the  risk ; and  such  a bookseller  was  not  readily  found. 
Dodsley  refused  even  to  look  at  the  manuscript  unless  he  were 
intrusted  with  the  name  of  the  author.  A publisher  in 
Fleet  Street,  named  Lowndes,  was  more  complaisant.  Some 
correspondence  took  place  between  this  person  and  Miss 
Burney,  who  took  the  name  of  Grafton,  and  desired  that  the 
letters  addressed  to  her  might  be  left  at  the  Orange  Coffee- 
house. But,  before  the  bargain  was  finally  struck,  Fanny 
thought  it  her  duty  to  obtain  her  father’s  consent.  She  told 


742  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

him  that  she  had  written  a book,  that  she  wished  to  have 
his  permission  to  publish  it  anonymously,  but  that  sho 
hoped  that  he  would  not  insist  upon  seeing  it.  What  fol- 
lowed may  serve  to  illustrate  what  we  meant  when  we  said 
that  Dr.  Burney  was  as  bad  a father  as  so  good-hearted  a 
man  could  possibly  be.  It  never  seems  to  have  crossed  his 
mind  that  Fanny  was  about  to  take  a step  on  which  the 
whole  happiness  of  her  life  might  depend,  a step  which 
might  raise  her  to  an  honorable  eminence,  or  cover  her  with 
ridicule  and  contempt.  Several  people  had  already  been 
trusted,  and  strict  concealment  was  therefore  not  to  be  ex- 
pected. On  so  grave  an  occasion,  it  was  surely  his. duty  to 
give  his  best  counsel  to  his  daughter,  to  win  her  confidence, 
to  prevent  her  from  exposing  herself  if  her  book  were  a bad 
one,  and,  if  it  were  a good  one,  to  see  that  the  terms  which 
she  made  with  the  publisher  were  likely  to  be  beneficial  to 
her.  Instead  of  this,  he  only  stared,  burst  out  a laughing, 
kissed  her,  gave  her  leave  to  do  as  she  liked,  and  never  even 
asked  the  name  of  her  work.  The  contract  with  Lowndes 
was  speedily  concluded.  Twenty  pounds  was  given  for  the 
copyright,  and  were  accepted  by  Fanny  with  delight.  Her 
father’s  inexcusable  neglect  of  his  duty  happily  caused  her 
no  worse  evil  than  the  loss  of  twelve  or  fifteen  hundred 
pounds. 

After  many  delays  Evelina  appeared  in  January,  1778. 
Poor  Fanny  was  sick  with  terror,  and  durst  hardly  stir  out 
of  doors.  Some  days  passed  before  anything  was  heard  of 
the  book.  It  had,  indeed,  nothing  but  its  own  merits  to 
push  it  into  public  favor.  Its  author  was  unknowm.  The 
house  by  which  it  was  published,  was  not,  we  believe,  held 
in  high  estimation.  No  body  of  partisans  had  been  engaged 
to  applaud.  The  better  class  of  readers  expected  little  from 
a novel  about  a young  lady’s  entrance  into  the  world.  There 
was,  indeed,  at  that  time  a disposition  among  the  most 
respectable  people  to  condemn  novels  generally ; nor  was 
this  disposition  by  any  means  without  excuse;  for  works  of 
that  sort  were  then  almost  always  silly,  and  very  frequently 
wicked. 

Soon,  however,  the  first  faint  accents  of  praise  began  to 
be  heard.  The  keepers  of  the  circulating  libraries  reported 
that  everybody  was  asking  for  Evelina,  and  that  some  per- 
son hnd  guessed  Anstey  to  be  the  author.  Then  came  a 
favorable  notice  in  the  London  Review ; then  another  still 
tgaore  favorable  in  the  Monthly.  And  now  the  book  found 


MADAME  D’ARBLAT 


743 


its  way  to  tables  which  had  seldom  been  polluted  by  marble 
covered  volumes.  Scholars  and  statesmen,  who  contemp- 
tuously abandoned  the  crowd  of  romances  to  Miss  Lydia 
Languish  and  Miss  Sukey-  Saunter,  were  not  ashamed  to 
own  that  they  could  not  tear  themselves  away  from  Evelina. 
Fine  carriages  and  rich  liveries,  not  often  seen  easi  of  Tem- 
ple Bar,  were  attracted  to  the  publisher’s  shop  in  Fleet 
Street.  Lowndes  was  daily  questioned  about  the  author, 
but  was  himself  as  much  in  the  dark  as  any  of  the  question- 
ers. The  mystery,  however,  could  not  remain  a mystery 
long.  It  was  known  to  brothers  and  sisters,  aunts  and 
cousins  : and  they  were  far  too  proud  and  too  happy  to  be' 
discreet.  Dr.  Burney  wept  over  the  book  in  rapture.  Daddy 
Crisp  shook  his  fist  at  his  Fannikin  in  feectionate  anger  at 
not  having  been  admitted  to  her  confidence.  The  truth 
was  whispered  to  Mrs.  Thrale ; and  then  it  began  to  spread 
fast. 

The  book  had  been  admired  while  it  was  ascribed  to  men 
of  letters  long  conversant  with  the  world,  and  accustomed 
to  composition.  But  when  it  was  known  that  a reserved, 
silent  young  woman  had  produced  the  best  work  of  fiction 
that  had  appeared  since  the  death  of  Smollett,  the  acclama- 
tions were  redoubled.  What  she  had  done  was,  indeed,  ex- 
traordinary. But,  as  usual,  various  reports  improved  the 
story  till  it  became  miraculous.  Evelina,  it  is  said,  was  the 
work  of  a girl  of  seventeen.  Incredible  as  this  tale  was,  it 
continued  to  be  repeated  down  to  our  own  time.  Frances 
was  too  honest  to  confirm  it.  Probably  she  was  too  much 
a woman  to  contradict  it ; and  it  was  long  before  any  of  her 
detractors  thought  of  this  mode  of  annoyance.  Yet  there 
was  no  want  of  low  minds  and  bad  hearts  in  the  generation 
which  witnessed  her  first  appearance.  There  was  the  envious 
Kenrick  and  the  savage  Wolcot,  the  asp  George  Steevens, 
and  the  polecat  John  "Williams.  It  did  not,  however,  occur 
to  them  to  search  the  parish  register  of  Lynn,  in  order  that 
they  might  be  able  to  twit  a lady  with  having  concealed  her 
age.  That  truly  chivalrous  exploit  was  reserved  for  a bad 
writer  of  our  own  time,  whose  spite  she  had  provoked  by 
not  furnishing  him  with  materials  for  a worthless  edition  of 
Boswell’s  Life  of  Johnson,  some  sheets  of  which  our  readers 
have  doubtless  seen  round  parcels  of  better  books. 

But  we  must  return  to  our  story.  The  triumph  was  com- 
plete. The  timid  and  obscure  girl  found  herself  on  the 
highest  pinnacle  of  fame.  Great  men,  on  whom  she  had 


744  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  wettings. 

\ 

gazed  at  a distance  with  humble  reverence,  addressed  her 
with  admiration,  tempered  by  the  tenderness  due  to  her  sex 
and  age.  Burke,  Windham,  Gibbon,  Reynolds,  Sheridan, 
were  among  her  most  ardent  eulogists.  Cumberland  ac- 
knowledged her  merit,  after  his  fashion,  by  biting  his  lips 
and  wriggling  in  his  chair  whenever  her  name  was  men- 
tioned. But  it  was  at  Streatham  that  she  tasted,  in  the 
highest  perfection,  the  sweets  of  flattery,  mingled  with  the 
sweets  of  friendship.  Mrs.  Thrale,  then  at  the  height  of 
prosperity  and  popularity,  with  gay  spirits,  quick  wit,  showy 
though  superficial  acquirements,  pleasing  though  not  re- 
fined manners,  a singularly  amiable  temper,  and  a loving 
heart,  felt  towards  Fanny  as  towards  a younger  sister.  With 
the  Thrales  Johnson  was  domesticated.  He  was  an  old 
friend  of  Dr.  Burney  ; but  he  had  probably  taken  little  no- 
tice of  Dr.  Burney’s  daughters,  and  Fanny,  we  imagine,  had 
never  in  her  life  dared  to  speak  to  him,  unless  to  ask  whether 
he  wanted  a nineteenth  or  a twentieth  cup  of  tea.  He  was 
charmed  by  her  tale,  and  preferred  it  to  the  novels  of  Field- 
ing, to  whom,  indeed,  he  had  always  been  grossly  unjust, 
lie  did  not,  indeed,  carry  his  partiality  so  far  as  to  place 
Evelina  by  the  side  of  Clarissa  and  Sir  Charles  Grandison  ; 
yet  he  said  that  his  little  favorite  had  done  enough  to  have 
made  even  Richardson  feel  uneasy.  With  Johnson’s  cor- 
dial approbation  of  the  book  was  mingled  a fondness,  half 
gallant,  half  paternal,  for  the  writer ; and  this  fondness  his 
age  and  character  entitled  him  to  show  without  restraint. 
He  began  by  putting  her  hand  to  his  lips.  But  he  soon 
clasped  her  in  his  huge  arms,  and  implored  her  to  be  a good 
girl.  She  was  his  pet,  his  dear  love,  his  dear  little  Burney, 
his  little  character-monger.  At  one  time,  he  broke  forth 
in  praise  of  the  good  taste  of  her  caps.  At  another  time  he 
insisted  on  teaching  her  Latin.  That,  with  all  his  coarseness 
and  irritability,  he  was  a man  of  sterling  benevolence,  has 
long  been  acknowledged.  But  how  gentle  and  endearing 
Ljs  deportment  could  be,  was  not  known  till  the  Recollec- 
tions of  Madame  D’Arblay  were  published. 

We  have  mentioned  a few  of  the  most  eminent  of  those 
who  paid  their  homage  to  the  author  of  Evelina.  The 
crowd  of  inferior  admirers  would  require  a catalogue  as  long 
as  that  in  the  second  book  of  the  Iliad.  In  that  catalogue 
would  be  Mrs.  Cholmondeley,  the  sayer  of  odd  things,  and 
Seward,  much  given  to  yawning,  and  Baretti,  who  slew  the 
man  in  the  Haymarket,  and  Paoli,  talking  broken  English, 


MADAME  d’ARBLAY. 


T4T> 

and  Langton,  taller  by  the  head  than  any  other  member  of 
the  club,  and  Lady  Millar,  who  kept  a vase  wherein  fools 
were  wont  to  put  bad  verses,  and  Jerningham,  who  wrote 
verses  fit  to  be  put  into  the  vase  of  Lady  Millar,  and  Dr. 
Franklin,  not,  as  some  have  dreamed,  the  great  Pennsyl- 
vanian Dr.  Franklin,  who  could  not  then  have  paid  his  re- 
spects to  Miss  Burney  without  much  risk  of  being  hanged* 
drawn,  and  quartered,  but  Dr.  Franklin  the  less, 

At  as 

fjLGLiov,  ovti  rocros  ye  otro?  TeAa/acoyios  Ala?, 

aAAa,  rro\v  (j.eiu)v. 

It  would  not  have  been  surprising  if  such  success  had 
turned  even  a strong  head,  and  corrupted  even  a generous 
and  affectionate  nature.  But,  in  the  Diary,  we  can  find  no 
trace  of  any  feeling  inconsistent  with  a truly  modest  and 
amiable  disposition.  There  is,  indeed,  abundant  proof  that 
Frances  enjoyed,  with  an  intense,  though  a troubled  joy,  the 
honors  which  her  genius  had  wTon  ; but  it  is  equally  clear 
that  her  happiness  sprang  from  the  happiness  of  her  father, 
her  sister,  and  her  dear  Daddy  Crisp.  While  flattered  by 
the  great,  the  opulent,  and  the  learned,  while  followed  along 
the  Steyne  at  Brighton,  and  the  Pantiles  at  Tunbridge 
Wells,  by  the  gaze  of  admiring  crowds,  her  heart  seems  to 
have  been  still  with  the  little  domestic  circle  in  Saint*  Mar- 
tin’s Street.  If  she  recorded  with  minute  diligence  all  the 
compliments,  delicate  and  coarse,  which  she  heard  wherever 
she  turned,  she  recorded  them  for  the  eyes  of  two  or  three 
persons  who  had  loved  her  from  infancy,  who  had  loved  her 
in  obscurity,  and  to  whom  her  fame  gave  the  purest  and 
most  exquisite  delight.  Nothing  can  be  more  unjust  than 
to  confound  these  outpourings  of  a kind  heart,  sure  of  per- 
fect sympathy,  with  the  egotism  of  a bluestocking,  who 
prates  to  all  who  come  near  her  about  her  own  novel  or  her 
own  volume  of  sonnets. 

It  was  natural  that  the  triumphant  issue  of  Miss  Burney’s 
first  venture  should  tempt  her  to  try  a second.  Evelina,  though 
it  had  raised  her  fame,  had  added  nothing  to  her  fortune. 
Some  of  her  friends  urged  her  to  write  for  the  stage.  John- 
son promised  to  give  her  his  advice  as  to  the  composition. 
Murphy,  who  was  supposed  to  understand  the  temper  of  the 
pit  as  well  as  any  man  of  his  time,  undertook  to  instruct  her 
as  to  stage  effect.  Sheridan  declared  that  he  would  accept 
a play  from  her  without  even  reading  it.  Thus  encouraged, 
sbe  wrote  a comedy  named  The  Witlings.  Fortunately  it 


746  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

was  never  acted  or  printed.  We  can,  we  think,  easily  per- 
ceive, from  the  little  which  is  said  on  the  subject  in  the 
Diary,  that  The  Witlings  would  have  been  damned,  and  that 
Murphy  and  Sheridan  thought  so,  though  they  were  too  po- 
lite to  say  so.  IIaj)pily  Frances  had  a friend  who  was  not 
afraid  to  give  her  pain.  Crisp,  wiser  for  her  than  lie  had 
been  for  himself,  read  the  manuscript  in  his  lonely  retreat, 
and  manfully  told  her  that  she  had  failed,  that  to  remove 
blemishes  here  and  there  would  be  useless,  that  the  piece  had 
abundance  of  wit  but  no  interest,  that  it  w^as  bad  as  a whole, 
that  it  would  remind  every  reader  of  the  Femmes  Savantes , 
which,  strange  to  say,  she  had  never  read,  and  that  she  could 
not  sustain  so  close  a comparison  with  Moliere.  This  opin- 
ion, in  which  Dr.  Burney  concurred,  was  sent  to  Frances, 
in  what  she  called  “ a hissing,  groaning,  catcalling  epistle.” 
But  she  had  too  much  sense  not  to  know  that  it  was  better 
to  be  hissed  and  catcalled  by  her  Daddy,  than  by  a whole 
sea  of  heads  in  the  pit  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre : and  she  had 
too  good  a heart  not  to  be  grateful  for  so  rare  an  act  of 
friendship.  She  returned  an  answer,  which  shows  how  well 
she  deserved  to  have  a judicious,  faithful,  and  affectionate 
adviser.  “ I intend,”  she  wrote,  u to  console  myself  for  your 
censure  by  this  greatest  proof  I have  ever  received  of  the 
sincerity,  candor,  and,  let  me  add,  esteem,  of  my  dear  daddy. 
And  as  I happen  to  love  myself  more  than  my  play,  this 
consolation  is  not  a very  trifling  one.  This,  however,  seri- 
ously I do  believe,  that  when  my  two  daddies  put  their 
heads  together  to  concert  that  hissing,  groaning,  catcalling 
epistle  they  sent  me,  they  felt  as  sorry  for  poor  little  Miss 
Bayes  as  she  could  possibly  do  for  herself.  You  see  I do 
not  attempt  to  repay  your  frankness  with  an  air  of  pretended 
carelessness.  But,  though  somewhat  disconcerted  just  now, 
I will  promise  not  to  let  my  vexation  live  out  another  day. 
Adieu,  my  dear  daddy,  I won’t  be  mortifievd,  and  I won’t  be 
downed  ; but  I will  be  proud  to  find  I have,  out  of  my  own 
family,  as  well  as  in  it,  a friend  who  loves  me  well  enough 
to  speak  plain  truth  to  me.” 

Frances  now  turned  from  her  dramatic  schemes  to  an 
undertaking  far  better  suited  to  her  talents.  She  deter- 
mined to  write  a new  tale,  on  a plan  excellently  contrived 
for  the  display  of  the  powers  in  which  her  superiority  to 
other  writers  lay.  It  was  in  truth  a grand  and  various  pic- 
ture gallery,  which  presented  to  the  eye  a long  series  of 
men  and  women,  each  marked  by  some  strong  peculiar 


MADAME  d’aEBLAY. 


74T 


feature.  There  were  avarice  and  prodigality,  the  pride  of 
blood  and  the  pride  of  money,  morbid  restlessness  and  mor- 
bid apathy,  frivolous  garrulity,  supercilious  silence,  a Dem- 
ocritus to  laugh  at  everything,  and  a Heraclitus  to  lament 
over  everything.  The  work  proceeded  fast,  and  in  twelve 
months  was  completed.  It  wanted  something  of  the  sim- 
plicity which  had  been  among  the  most  attractive  charms 
of  Evelina  ; but  it  furnished  ample  proof  that  the  four  years 
which  had  elapsed  since  Evelina  appeared,  had  not  been 
unprofitably  spent.  Those  who  saw  Cecilia  in  manuscript 
pronounced  it  the  best  novel  of  the  age.  Mrs.  Thralc 
laughed  and  wept  over  it.  Crisp  was  even  vehement  in 
applause,  and  offered  to  insure  the  rapid  and  complete 
success  of  the  book  for  half  a crown.  What  Miss  Burney 
received  for  the  copyright  is  not  mentioned  in  the  Diary  ; 
but  we  have  observed  several  expressions  from  which  we 
infer  that  the  sum  was  considerable.  That  the  sale  would 
be  great  nobody  could  doubt ; and  Frances  now  had  shrewd 
and  experienced  advisers,  who  would  not  suffer  her  to  wrong 
herself.  We  have  been  told  that  the  publishers  gave  her 
two  thousand  pounds,  and  we  have  no  doubt  that  they  might 
have  given  a still  larger  sum  without  being  losers. 

Cecilia  was  published  in  the  summer  of  1782.  Tho 
curiosity  of  the  town  was  intense.  We  have  been  informed 
by  persons  who  remember  those  days  that  no  romance  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott  was  more  impatiently  awaited,  or  more 
eagerly  snatched  from  the  counters  of  the  booksellers.  High 
as  public  expectation  was,  it  was  amply  satisfied ; and  Ce- 
cilia was  placed  by  general  acclamation,  among  the  classical 
novels  of  England. 

Miss  Burney  was  now  thirty.  Her  youth  had  been  singu- 
larly prosperous  ; but  clouds  soon  began  to  gather  over  that 
clear  and  radiant  dawn.  Events  deeply  painful  to  a heart 
so  kind  as  that  of  Frances  followed  each  other  in  rapid  suc- 
cession. She  was  first  called  upon  to  attend  the  death-bed 
of  her  best  friend,  Samuel  Crisp.  When  she  returned  to  St. 
Martin’s  Street,  after  jjerforming  this  melancholy  duty,  she 
was  appalled  by  hearing  that  Johnson  had  been  struck  with 
paralysis  ; and,  not  many  months  later,  she  parted  from  him 
for  the  last  time  with  solemn  tenderness.  He  wished  to  look 
on  her  once  more  ; and  on  the  day  before  his  death  she  long 
remained  in  tears  on  the  stairs  leading  to  his  bedroom,  in 
the  hope  that  she  might  be  called  in  to  receive  his  blessing, 
lie  was  then  sinking  fast,  and  though  he  sent  her  an  affec- 


743 


Macaulay’s  MiscELLA::^otTs  writings. 

tionate  message,  was  unable  to  see  her.  But  this  was  not 
the  worst.  There  are  separations  far  more  cruel  than  those 
which  are  made  by  death.  She  might  weep  with  proud 
affection  for  Crisp  and  Johnson.  She  had  to  blush  as  weL 
as  to  weep  for  Mrs.  Thrale. 

Life,  however,  still  smiled  upon  Frances.  Domestic  hap- 
piness, friendship,  independence,  leisure,  letters,  all  these 
things  were  hers  ; and  she  Hung  them  all  away. 

Among  the  distinguished  persons  to  whom  she  had  been 
introduced,  none  appears  to  have  stood  higher  in  her  regard 
than  Mrs.  Del  any.  This  lady  was  an  interesting  and  vener- 
able relic  of  a past  age.  She  was  the  niece  of  George  Gran- 
ville, Lord  Lansdownc,  who,  in  his  youth,  exchanged  verses 
and  compliments  with' Edmund  Waller,  and  who  was  among 
the  first  to  applaud  the  opening  genius  of  Pope.  She  had 
married  Dr.  Delany,  a man  known  to  his  contemporaries  as 
a profound  scholar  and  an  eloquent  preacher,  but  remem- 
bered in  our  time  chiefly  as  one  of  that  small  circle  in  which 
the  fierce  spirit  of  Swift,  tortured  by  disappointed  ambition, 
by  remorse,  and  by  the  approaches  of  madness,  sought  for 
amusement  and  repose.  Doctor  Delany  had  long  been  dead. 
Ilis  widow,  nobly  descended,  eminently  accomplished,  and 
retaining,  in  spite  of  the  infirmities  of  advanced  age,  the 
vigor  of  her  faculties  and  the  serenity  of  her  temper,  enjoyed 
and  deserved  the  favor  of  the  royal  family.  She  had  a pen- 
sion of  three  hundred  a year;  and  a house  at  Windsor,  be- 
longing to  the  crown,  had  been  fitted  up  for  her  accommo- 
dation. At  this  house  the  King  and  Queen  sometimes 
called,  and  found  a very  natural  pleasure  in  thus  catching 
an  occasional  glimpse  of  the  private  life  of  English  families. 

In  December,  1785,  Miss  Burney  was  on  a .visit  to  Mrs. 
Delany  at  Windsor.  The  dinner  was  over.  The  old  lady 
was  taking  a nap.  Her  grandniece,  a little  girl  of  seven, 
was  playing  at  some  Christmas  game  with  the  visitors,  when 
the  door  opened,  and  a stout  gentleman  entered  unan- 
nounced, with  a star  on  his  breast,  and  “ What?  what? 
what  ?”  in  his  mouth.  A cry  of  “ The  King ! ” was  set  up. 
A general  scampering  followed.  Miss  Burney  owns  that 
she  could  not  have  been  more  terrified  it'  she  had  seen  a 
ghost.  But  Mrs.  Delany  came  forward  to  pay  her  duty  to 
her  royal  friend,  and  the  disturbance  was  quieted.  Frances 
was  then  presented,  and  underwent  a long  examination  and 
cross-examination  about  all  that  she  had  written  and  all  that 
she  meant  to  write.  The  Queen  soon  made  her  appearance, 


MADAMS  d’aUULaY. 


749 


nni  his  Majesty  repeated,  for  the  benefit  of  his  consort,  the 
information  which  he  had  extracted  from  Miss  Burney. 
The  good  nature  of  the  royal  pair  might  have  softened  even 
the  authors  of  the  Probationary  Odes,  and  could  not  but 
be  delightful  to  a young  lady  who  had  been  brought  up  a 
Tory.  In  a few  days  the  visit  was  repeated.  Miss  Burney 
was  more  at  ease  than  before.  His  Majesty,  instead  of 
seeking  for  information,  condescended  to  impart  it,  and 
passed  sentence  on  many  great  writers,  English  and  foreign. 
Voltaire  he  pronounced  a monster.  Rousseau  he  liked 
rather  better.  “ But  was  there  ever,”  he  cried,  “ such  stuff 
as  great  part  of  Shakspeare?  Only  one  must  not  say  so. 
But  what  think  you?  What?  Is  there  not  sad  stuff? 
What?  What?” 

The  next  day  Frances  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  listening 
to  some  equally  valuable  criticism  uttered  by  the  Queen 
touching  Goethe  and  Klopstock,  and  might  have  learned  an 
important  lesson  of  economy  from  the  mode  in  which  her 
Majesty’s  library  had  been  formed.  “ I picked  the  book  up 
on  a stall,”  said  the  Queen.  “Oh,  it  is  amazing  what  good 
books  there  are  on  stalls ! ” Mrs.  Delany,  who  seems  to 
have  understood  from  these  words  that  her  Majesty  was  in 
the  habit  of  exploring  the  booths  of  Moorfields  and  Holy- 
well  Street  in  person,  could  not  suppress  an  exclamation  of 
surprise.  “ Why,”  said  the  Queen,  “I  don’t  pick  them  up 
myself.  But  I have  a servant  very  clever  ; and  if  they  are 
not  to  be  had  at  the  booksellers,  they  are  not  for  me  more 
than  for  another.”  Miss  Burney  describes  this  conversation 
as  delightful ; and,  indeed,  we  cannot  winder  that,  with  her 
literary  tastes,  she  should  be  delighted  at  hearing  in  how 
magnificent  a manner  the  greatest  lady  in  the  land  encour- 
aged literature. 

The  truth  is,  that  Frances  was  fascinated  by  the  con- 
descending kindness  of  the  two  great  personages  to  whom 
she  had  been  presented.  Her  father  was  even  more  infatu- 
ated than  lerself.  The  result  was  a step  of  which  we  cannot 
think  with  patience,  but  which,  recorded  as  it  is,  with  all 
its  consequences,  in  these  volumes,  deserves  at  least  this, 
praise,  that  it  has  furnished  a most  impressive  warning. 

A German  lady  of  the  name  of  Haggerdorn,  one  of  the 
keepers  of  the  Queen’s  robes,  retired  about  this  time ; and 
her  Majesty  offered  the  vacant  post  to  Miss  Burney.  When 
we  consider  that  Miss  Burney  was  decidedly  the  most  popu- 
lar writer  of  lictitious  narrative  then  living,  that  competence, 


750  MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS; 

if  not  opulence,  was  within  her  reach,  and  that  she  was  more 
than  usually  happy  in  her  domestic  circle,  and  when  we 
compare  the  sacrifice  which  she  was  invited  to  make  with 
the  remuneration  which  was  held  out  to  her,  we  are 
divided  between  laughter  and  indignation. 

What  was  demanded  of  her  was  that  she  should  consent 
to  be  almost  as  completely  separated  from  her  family  and 
friends  as  if  she  had  gone  to  Calcutta,  and  almost  as  close  a 
prisoner  as  if  she  had  been  sent  to  jail  for  a libel ; that  with 
talents  which  had  instructed  and  delighted  the  highest 
living  minds,  she  should  now  be  employed  only  in  mixing 
6nuff  and  sticking  pins ; that  she  should  l>e  summoned  by  a 
waiting  woman’s  bell  to  a waiting  woman’s  duties  ; that  she 
should  pass  her  whole  life  under  the  restraints  of  a paltry 
etiquette,  should  sometimes  fast  till  she  Avas  ready  to  swoon 
with  hunger,  should  sometimes  stand  till  her  knees  ga\re 
way  with  fatigue;  that' she  should  not  dare  to  speak  or 
move  without  considering  how  her  mistress  might  like  her 
words  and  gestures.  Instead  of  those  distinguished  men 
and  women,  the  floAver  of  all  political  parties,  with  whom 
she  had  been  in  the  habit  of  mixing  on  terms  of  equal  friend- 
ship, she  Avas  to  have  for  her  perpetual  companion  the  chief 
keeper  of  the  robes,  an  old  hag  from  Germany,  of  mean 
understanding,  of  insolent  manners,  and  of  temper  which, 
naturally  savage,  had  uoav  been  exasperated  by  disease. 
Now  and  then,  indeed,  poor  Frances  might  console  herself 
for  the  loss  of  Burke’s  and  Windham’s  society,  by  joining 
in  the  “celestial  colloquy  sublime  ” of  his  Majesty’s  Equer- 
ries. 

And  what  was  the  consideration  for  which  she  was  to 
sell  herself  to  this  slaArery  ? A peerage  in  her  oAvn  right? 
A pension  of  two  thousand  a year  for  life?  A seventy-four 
for  her  brother  in  the  navy?  A deanery  for  her  brother  in 
the  church?  Not  so.  The  price  at  which  she  was  valued 
was  her  board,  her  lodging,  the  attendance  of  a manseiwant, 
and  two  hundred  pounds  a year. 

The  man  who,  even  Avhen  hard  pressed  by  hunger,  sella 
his  birthright  for  a mess  of  pottage,  is  unwise.  But  what 
shall  we  say  of  him  who  parts  with  his  birthright,  and  does' 
not  get  even  the  pottage  in  return  ? It  is  not  necessary  to 
inquire  whether  opulence  be  an  adequate  compensation  for 
the  sacrifice  of  bodily  and  mental  freedom  ; for  Frances 
Burney  paid  for  leave  to  be  a prisoner  and  a menial.  It 
was  evidently  understood  as  one  of  the  terms  of  her  engage- 


MADAME  d’aRBLAY. 


751 


ment,  that,  while  &he  was  a member  of  the  royal  household, 
she  was  not  to  appear  before  the  public  as  an  author  : and, 
even  had  there  been  no  such  understanding,  her  avocations 
were  such  as  left  her  no  leisure  for  any  considerable  intel- 
lectual effort.  That  her  place  was  incompatible  with  her 
literary  pursuits  was  indeed  frankly  acknowledged  by  the 
King  when  she  resigned.  “ She  has  given  up,”  he  said, 

“ five  years  of  her  pen.”  That  during  those  five  years  she 
might,  without  painful  exertion,  without  any  exertion  that 
would  not  have  been  a pleasure,  have  earned  enough  to  buy  an 
annuity  for  life  much  larger  than  the  precarious  salary  # 
which  she  received  at  court,  is  quite  certain.  The  same 
income,  too,  which  in  Saint  Martin’s  Street  would  have 
afforded  her  every  comfort,  must  have  been  found  scanty  at 
Saint  James’s.  We  cannot  venture  to  speak  confidently 
of  the  price  of  millinery  and  jewelry ; but  we  are  greatly 
deceived  if  a lady  who  had  to  attend  Queen  Charlotte  on 
many  public  occasions,  could  possibly  save  a farthing  out  of 
two  hundred  a year.  The  principle  of  the  arrangement  was, 
in  short,  s1*  in  ply  this,  that  Frances  Burney  should  become  a 
slave,  and  should  be  rewarded  by  being  made  a beggar. 

Wirh  what  object  their  Majesties  brought  her  to  their 
palace,  we  must  own  ourselves  unable  to  conceive.  Their 
object  could  not  be  to  encourage  her  literary  exertions ; for 
they  took  her  from  a situation  in  which  it  was  almost  cer- 
tain that  she  would  write,  and  put  her  into  a situation  in 
which  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  write.  Their  object  could 
not  be  to  promote  her  pecuniary  interest ; for  they  took  her 
from  a situation  where  she  was  likely  to  become  rich,  and  put 
her  into  a situation  in  which  she  could  not  but  continue  poor. 
Their  object  could  not  be  to  obtain  an  eminently  useful  wait- 
ing maid  ; for  it  is  clear  that,  though  Miss  Burney  was  the 
only  woman  of  her  time  who  could  have  described  the  death 
of  Barrel,  thousands  might  have  been  found  more  expert  in 
tying  ribands  and  filling  snuff-boxes.  To  grant  her  a pen- 
sion on  the  civil  list  would  have  been  an  act  of  judicious 
liberality  honorable  to  the  court.  If  this  was  impracticable, 
the  next  best  thing  was  to  let  her  alone.  That  the  King 
and  Queen  meant  her  nothing  but  kindness,  we  do  not  in 
the  least  doubt.  But  their  kindness  was  the  kindness  of  per- 
sons raised  high  above  the  mass  of  mankind,  accustomed 
to  be  addressed  with  profound  deference,  accustomed  to  see 
all  who  approached  them  mortified  by  their  coldness  and 
elated  by  their  smiles.  They  fancied  that  to  be  noticed  by 


752  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

them,  to  be  near  them,  to  serve  them,  was  in  itself  a kind  of 
happiness;  and  that  Frances  Burney  ought  to  be  full  of 
gratitude  for  being  permitted  to  purchase,  by  the  sacrifice, 
of  health,  wealth,  freedom,  domestic  affection,  and  literary 
fame,  the  privilege  of  standing  behind  a royal  chair,  and 
holding  a pair  of  royal  gloves. 

And  who  can  blame  them  ? Who  can  wonder  that  princes 
should  be  under  such  a delusion,  when  they  are  encouraged 
in  it  by  the  very  persons  who  suffer  from  it  most  cruelly  ? 
Was  it  to  be  expected  that  George  the  Third  and  Queen 
Charlotte  should  understand  the  interest  of  Frances  Burney 
better,  or  promote  it  with  more  zeal  than  herself  and  her 
father  ? No  deception  was  practised.  The  conditions  of  tho 
house  of  bondage  were  set  forth  with  all  simplicity.  The 
hook  was  presented  without  a bait ; the  net  was  spread  in 
sight  of  the  bird  ; and  the  naked  hook  was  greedily  swal- 
lowed, and  the  silly  bird  made  haste  to  entangled  herself  in 
the  net. 

It  is  not  strange  indeed  that  an  invitation  to  court  should 
have  caused  a fluttering  in  the  bosom  of  an  inexperienced 
young  woman.  But  it  was  the  duty  of  the  parent  to  watch 
over  the  child,  and  to  show  her  that  on  one  side  were  only 
infantine  vanities  and  chimerical  hopes,  on  the  other  liberty, 
peace  of  mind,  affluence,  social  enjoyments,  honorable  dis- 
tinctions. Strange  to  say,  the  only  hesitation  was  on  the 
part  of  Frances.  Dr.  Burney  was  transported  out  of  himself 
with  delight.  Not  such  are  the  raptures  of  a Circassian 
father  who  has  sold  his  pretty  daughter  well  to  a Turkish 
slavemerchant.  Yet  Dr.  Burney  was  an  amiable  man,  a man 
of  good  abilities,  a man  who  had  seen  much  of  the  world.  But 
he  seems  to  have  thought  that  going  to  court  was  like  going 
to  heaven  ; that  to  see  princes  and  princesses  was  a kind  of 
beatific  vision  ; that  the  exquisite  felicity  enjoyed  by  royal 
persons  was  not  confined  to  themselves,  but  was  communi- 
cated by  some  mysterious  efflux  or  reflection  to  all  who  were 
suffered  to  stand  at  their  toilettes,  or  to  bear  their  trains, 
lie  overruled  all  his  daughter’s  objections,  and  himself  es- 
corted her  to  her  prison.  The  door  closed.  The  key  was 
turned.  She,  looking  back  with  tender  regret  on  all  that  she 
had  left,  and  forward  with  anxiety  and  terror  to  the  new  life 
on  which  she  was  entering,  was  unable  to  speak  or  stand ; and 
he  went  on  his  way  homeward  rejoicing  in  her  marvellous 
prosperity. 

And  now  began  a slavery  of  five  years,  of  five  years  taken 


MADAME  d’aRBLAY. 


753 


from  the  best  part  of  life,  and  wasted  in  menial  drudgery 
or  in  recreations  duller  than  even  menial  drudgery,  under 
galling  restraints  and  amidst  unfriendly  or  uninteresting  com- 
panions The  history  of  an  ordinary  day  was  this.  Miss 
Burney  had  to  rise  and  dress  herself  early,  that  she  might  bo 
ready  to  answer  the  royal  bell,  which  rang  at  half  after  seven. 
Till  about  eight  she  attended  in  the  Queen’s  dressing-room, 
and  had  the  honor  of  lacing  her  august  mistress’s  stays,  and 
of  putting  on  the  liooj^,  gown,  and  neck-handkerchief.  The 
morning  was  chiefly  spent  in  rummaging  drawers  and  lay- 
ing fine  clothes  in  their  proper  places.  Then  the  Queen  was 
to  be  powdered  and  dressed  for  the  day.  Twice  a week  her 
Majesty’s  hair  was  curled  and  craped ; and  this  operation 
appears  to  have  added  a full  hour  to  the  business  of  the  toi- 
lette. It  was  generally  three  before  Miss  Burney  was  at 
liberty.  Then  she  had  two  hours  at  her  own  disposal.  To 
these  hours  we  owe  great  part  of  her  Diary.  At  five  she  had 
to  attend  her  colleague,  Madame  Schwellenberg,  a hateful  old 
toad-eater,  as  illiterate  as  a chambermaid,  as  proud  as  a whole 
German  Chapter,  rude,  peevish,  unable  to  bear  solitude,  un- 
able to  conduct  herself  with  common  decency  in  society. 
With  this  delightful  associate,  Frances  Burney  had  to  dine, 
and  pass  the  evening.  The  pair  generally  remained  together 
from  five  to  eleven,  and  often  had  no  other  company  the 
whole  time,  except  during  the  hour  from  eight  to  nine,  when 
the  equerries  came  to  tea.  If  poor  Frances  attempted  to  es- 
cape to  her  own  apartment,  and  to  forget  her  wretchedness 
over  a book,  the  execrable  old  woman  railed  and  stormed, 
and  complained  that  she  was  neglected.  Yet,  when  Frances 
stayed,  she  was  constantly  assailed  with  insolent  reproaches. 
Literary  fame  was,  in  the  eyes  of  the  German  crone,  a blem- 
ish, a proof  that  the  person  who  enjoyed  it  was  meanly  born, 
and  out  of  the  pale  of  good  society.  All  her  scanty  stock  of 
broken  English  was  employed  to  express  the  contempt  with 
which  she  regarded  the  author  of  Evelina  and  Cecilia. 
Frances  detested  cards,  and  indeed  knew  nothing  about  them ; 
but  she  soon  found  that  the  least  miserable  way  of  passing  an 
evening  with  Madame  Schwellenberg  was  at  the  card  table, 
and  consented,  with  patient  sadness,  to  give  hours,  which 
might  have  called  forth  the  laughter  and  the  tears  of  many 
generations,  to  the  king  of  clubs  and  the  knave  of  spades. 
Between  eleven  and  twelve  the  bell  rang  again.  Miss  Bur- 
ney had  to  pass  twenty  minutes  or  half  an  hour  in  undress- 
ing the  Queen,  and  was  then  at  liberty  to  retire,  and  to  dream 
Vol.  IL— 48 


754  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  whitings. 

that  she  was  chatting  with  her  brother  by  the  quiet  hearth 
in  Saint  Martin’s  Street,  that  she  was  the  centre  of  an  admir- 
ing assemblage  at  Mrs.  Crewe’s,  that  Burke  was  calling  her 
the  first  woman  of  the  age,  or  that  Billy  was  giving  her  a 
check  for  two  thousand  guineas. 

Men,  we  must  suppose,  are  less  patient  than  women  ; foi 
we  are  utterly  at  a loss  to  conceive  how  any  human  being 
could  endure  such  a life,  while  there  remained  a vacant  gar 
ret  in  Grub  Street,  a crossing  in  want  of  a sweeper,  a parish 
workhouse,  or  a parish  vault.  And  it  was  for  such  a life 
that  Frances  Burney  had  given  up  liberty  and  peace,  a happy 
fireside,  attached  friends,  a wide  and  splendid  circle  of  ac- 
quaintance, intellectual  pursuits  in  which  she  was  qualified  to 
excel,  and  the  sure  hope  of  what  to  her  would  have  been 
affluence. 

There  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun.  The  last  great 
master  of  Attic  eloquence  and  Attic  wit  has  left  us  a forcible 
and  touching  description  of  the  misery  of  a man  of  letters, 
who,  lured  by  hopes  similar  to  those  of  Frances,  had  entered 
the  service  of  one  of  the  magnates  of  Rome.  “ Unhappy 
that  I am,”  cries  the  victim  of  his  own  childish  ambition  ; 
“ would  nothing  content  me  but  that  I must  leave  mine  old 
pursuits  and  mine  old  companions,  and  the  life  which  was 
without  care,  and  the  sleep  which  had  no  limit  save  mine 
own  pleasure,  and  the  walks  which  I was  free  to  take  where 
I listed,  and  fling  myself  into  the  lowest  pit  of  a dungeon 
like  this  ? And,  O God ! for  what  ? W as  there  no  way  by 
which  I might  have  enjoyed  in  freedom  comforts  even 
greater  than  those  which  I now  earn  by  servitude  ? Like  a lion 
which  has  been  made  so  tame  that  men  may  lead  him  about 
by  a thread,  I am  dragged  up  and  down,  with  broken  and 
humble  spirit,  at  the  heels  of  those  to  whom,  in  mine  own 
domain,  I should  have  been  an  object  of  awe  and  wonder. 
And,  worst  of  all,  I feel  that  here  I gain  no  credit,  that  here 
I give  no  pleasure.  The  talents  and  accomplishments,  which 
charmed  a far  different  circle,  are  here  out  of  place.  I am 
rude  in  the  arts  of  palaces,  and  can  ill  bear  comparison  with 
those  whose  calling,  from  their  youth  up,  has  been  to  flatter 
and  to  sue.  Have  I,  then,  two  lives,  that,  after  I have  wasted 
one  in  the  service  of  others,  there  may  yet  remain  to  me  a 
second,  which  I may  live  unto  myself?  ” 

Now  and  then,  indeed,  events  occurred  which  disturbed 
the  wretched  monotony  of  Frances  Burney’s  life.  The  court 
moved  from  Kew  to  Windsor,  and  from  WindSQi:  back  to 


MADAMS  D5A&BLAY* 


755 


Kew*  One  dull  colonel  went  out  of  waiting,  and  another 
dull  colonel  came  into  waiting.  An  impertinent  servant 
made  a blunder  about  tea,  and  caused  a. misunderstanding 
between  the  gentlemen  and  the  ladies.  A half  witted  French 
Protestant  minister  talked  oddly  about  conjugal  fidelity.  An 
unlucky  member  of  the  household  mentioned  a passage  in 
the  Morning  Herald,  reflecting  on  the  Queen  ; aifd  forthwith 
Madame  Schwellenberg  began  to  storm  in  bad  English,  and 
told  him  that  he  made  her  “ what  you  call  perspire  ! ” 

A more  important  occurrence  was  the  King’s  visit  to 
Oxford.  Miss  Burney  w^ent  in  the  royal  train  to  Nuneham, 
was  utterly  neglected  there  in  the  crowd,  and  could  with 
difficulty  find  a servant  to  show  the  way  to  her  bedroom,  or 
a hairdresser  to  arrange  her  curls.  She  had  the  honor  of 
entering  Oxford  in  the  last  of  a long  string  of  carriages 
wrhich  formed  the  royal  procession,  of  walking  after  the  Queen 
all  day  through  refectories  and  chapels,  and  of  standing,  haJf 
dead  with  fatigue  and  hunger,  while  her  august  mistress  was 
seated  at  an  excellent  cold  collation.  At  Magdalene  College, 
Frances  was  left  for  a moment  in  a parlor,  where  she  sank 
down  on  a chair.  A good  natured  equerry  saw  that  she  was 
exhausted,  and  shared  with  her  some  apricots  and  bread, 
which  he  had  wdsely  put  into  his  pockets.  At  that  moment 
the  door  opened  ; the  Queen  entered  ; the  wearied  attendants 
sprang  up  ; the  bread  and  fruit  were  hastily  concealed.  “ I 
found,”  says  poor  Miss  Burney,  “ that  our  appetites  were  to 
be  supposed  annihilated,  at  the  same  moment  that  our 
strength  was  to  be  invincible.” 

Yet  Oxford,  seen  even  under  such  disadvantages,  “revived 
in  her,”  to  use  her  own  words,  “ a consciousness  to  pleasure 
which  had  long  lain  nearly  dormant.”  She  forgot,  during 
one  moment,  that  she  was  a waiting  maid,  and  felt  as  a 
woman  of  true  genius  might  be  expected  to  feel  amidst  ven- 
erable remains  of  antiquity,  beautiful  works  of  art,  vast 
repositories  of  knowledge,  and  memorials  of  the  illustrious 
dead.  Had  she  still  been  what  she  was  before  her  father  in- 
duced her  to  take  the  most  fatal  step  of  her  life,  we  can  easily 
imagine  what  pleasure  she  wTould  have  derived  from  a visit 
to  the  noblest  of  English  cities.  She  might,  indeed,  have 
been  forced  to  travel  in  a hack  chaise,  and  might  not  have 
worn  so  fine  a gown  of  Chambery  gauze  as  that  in  which  she 
tottered  after  the  royal  party  ; but  with  what  delight  would 
she  have  then  paced  the  cloisters  of  Magdalene,  compared 
the  antique  gloom  of  Merton  with  the  splendor  of  Christ 


^66  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

Church,  and  looked  down  from  the  dome  of  Radcliffe  li- 
brary on  the  magnificent  sea  of  turrets  and  batt.ements  below ! 
How  gladly  would  learned  men  have  laid  aside  for  a few 
hours  Pindar’s  Odes  and  Aristotle’s  Ethics,  to  escort  the  au- 
thor of  Cecilia  from  college  to  college ! What  neat  little 
banquets  \yould  she  have  found  set  out  in  their  monastic 
cells ! With  wThat  eagerness  would  pictures,  medals,  and  il- 
luminated missals  have  been  brought  forth  from  mysterious 
cabinets  for  her  amusement ! How  much  she  would  have 
had  to  hear  and  to  tell  about  Johnson,  as  she  walked  over 
Pembroke,  and  about  Reynolds  in  the  antechapel  of  New 
College ! But  these  indulgences  were  not  for  one  who  had 
sold  herself  into  bondage. 

About  eighteen  months  after  the  visit  to  Oxford,  another 
event  diversified  the  wearisome  life  which  Frances  led  at 
court.  W arren  Hastings  was  brought  to  the  bar  of  the  House 
of  Peers.  The  Queen  and  Princesses  were  present  when  the 
trial  commenced,  and  Miss  Burney  was  permitted  to  attend. 
During  the  subsequent  proceedings  a day  rule  for  the  same 
purpose  was  occasionally  granted  to  her ; for  the  Queen 
took  the  strongest  interest  in  the  trial,  and,  when  she  could 
not  go  herself  to  Westminster  Hall,  liked  to  receive  a report 
of  what  had  passed  from  a person  who  had  singular  powers 
of  observation,  and  who  was,  moreover,  acquainted  with  some 
of  the  most  distinguished  managers.  The  portion  of  the 
Diary  which  relates  to  this  celebrated  proceeding  is  lively 
and  picturesque.  Yet  we  read  it,  we  own,  with  pain;  for 
it  seems  to  us  to  prove  that  the  fine  understanding  of  Frances 
Burney  was  beginning  to  feel  the  pernicious  influence  of  a 
mode  of  life  which  is  as  incompatible  with  health  of  mind  as 
the  air  of  the  Pomptine  marshes  with  health  of  body.  From 
the  first  day  she  espouses  the  cause  of  Hastings  with  a pre- 
sumptuous vehemence  and  acrimony  quite  inconsistent  with 
the  modesty  and  suavity  of  her  ordinary  deportment.  She 
shudders  when  Burke  enters  the  Hall  at  the  head  of  the 
Commons.  She  pronounces  him  the  cruel  oppressor  of 
an  innocent  man.  She  is  at  a loss  to  conceive  how  the 
managers  can  look  at  the  defendant,  and  not  blush.  Wind- 
ham comes  to  her  from  the  manager’s  box,  to  ‘ offer  her 
refreshment.  “ But,”  says  she,  “ I could  not  break  bread 
with  him.”  Then,  again,  she  exclaims,  “ Ah,  Mr.  Wind- 
ham, how  came  you  ever  engaged  in  so  cruel,  so  unjust 
a cause  ? ” “ Mr.  Burke  saw  me,”  she  says,  “ and  he 

bowed  with  the  most  marked  civility  of  manner.”  This, 


Madams  itakblay* 


757 


be  it  observed,  was  just  after  his  opening  speech,  a speech 
which  had  produced  a mighty  effect,  and  which,  certainly, 
no  other  orator  that  ever  lived  could  have  made.  “My 
curtsy,”  slf e continues,  “was  the  most  ungrateful,  dis- 
tant, and  cold  ; I could  not  do  otherwise  ; so  hurt  I felt 
to  see  him  the  head  of  such  a cause.”  Now,  not  only  had 
Burke  treated  her  with  constant  kindness,  but  the  very  last 
act  which  he  performed  on  the  day  on  which  he  was  turned 
out  of  the  Pay  Office,  about  four  years  before  this  trial,  was 
to  make  Doctor  Burney  organist  of  Chelsea  Hospital. 
When,  at  the  Westminster  election,  Doctor  Burney  was 
divided  between  his  gratitude  for  this  favor  and  his  Tory 
opinions,  Burke  in  the  noblest  manner  disclaimed  all  right 
to  exact  a sacrifice  of  principle.  “ You  have  little  or  no 
obligations  to  me,”  he  wrote  ; “ but  if  you  had  as  many  as 
I really  wish  it  were  in  my  power,  as  it  is  certainly  in  my 
desire,  to  lay  on  you,  I hope  you  do  not  think  me  capable 
of  conferring  them,  in  order  to  subject  your  mind  or  your 
affairs  to  a painful  and  mischievous  servitude.”  Was  this  a 
man  to  be  uncivilly  treated  by  a daughter  of  Doctor  Burney, 
because  she  chose  to  differ  from  him  respecting  a vast  and 
most  complicated  question,  which  he  had  studied  deeply 
during  many  years,  and  which  she  had  never  studied  at  all  ? 
It  is  clear,  from  Miss  Burney’s  own  narrative,  that  when  she 
behaved  so  unkindly  to  Mr.  Burke,  she  did  not  even  know 
of  what  Hastings  was  accused.  One  thing,  however,  she 
must  have  known,  that  Burke  had  been  able  to  convince  a 
House  of  Commons,  bitterly  prejudiced  against  himself, 
that  the  charges  were  wTell  founded,  and  that  Pitt  and 
Dundas  had  concurred  with  Fox  and  Sheridan,  in  supporting 
the  impeachment.  Surely  a woman  of  far  inferior  abilities 
to  Miss  Burney  might  have  been  expected  to  see  that  this 
never  could  have  happened  unless  there  had  been  a strong 
case  against  the  late  Governor  General.  And  there  was,  as 
all  reasonable  men  now  admit,  a strong  case  against  him. 
Tha^  there  were  great  public  services  to  be  set  off  against 
his  great  crimes  is  perfectly  true.  But  his  services  and  his 
crimes  were  equally  unknown  to  the  lady  who  so  confidently 
asserted  his  perfect  innocence,  and  imputed  to  his  accusers, 
that  is  to  say,  to  all  the  greatest  men  of  all  parties  in  the 
^fctate,  not  merely  error,  but  gross  injustice  and  barbarity. 

She  had,  it  is  true,  occasionally  seen  Mr.  Hastings,  and 
had  found  his  manners  and  conversation  agreeable.  But 
surely  she  could  not  be  so  weak  as  to  infer  from  the  gentle* 


758  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  weitiNOS. 

ness  of  his  deportment  in  the  .drawing-room,  that  he  was 
incapable  of  committing  a great  state  crime,  under  the  in- 
fluence of  ambition  and  revenge.  A silly  Miss,  fresh  from 
a boarding  school,  might  fall  into  such  a mistake  ; but  the 
woman  who  had  drawn  the  character  of  Mr.  Monckton 
should  have  known  better. 

The  truth  is  that  she  had  been  too  long  at  Court.  She  was 
sinking  into  a slavery  worse  than  that  of  the  body.  The 
iron  was  beginning  to  enter  into  the  soul.  Accustomed  dur- 
ing  many  months  to  watch  the  eye  of  a mistress,  tc  receive 
with  boundless  gratitude  the  slightest  mark  of  royal  con- 
descension, to  feel  wretched  at  every  symptom  of  royal 
displeasure,  to  associate  only  with  spirits  long  tamed  and 
broken  in,  she  was  degenerating  into  something  fit  for  her 
place.  Queen  Charlotte  was  a violent  partisan  of  Hastings, 
had  received  presents  from  him,  and  had  so  far  departed 
from  the  severity  of  her  virtue  as  to  lend  her  countenance 
to  his  wife,  whose  conduct  had  certainly  been  as  reprehensi- 
ble as  that  of  any  of  the  frail  beauties  who  were  then  rigidly 
excluded  from  the  English  Court.  The  King,  it  was  well 
known,  took  the  same  side.  To  the  King  and  Queen  all 
the  members  of  the  household  looked  submissively  for 
guidance.  The  impeachment,  therefore,  was  an  atrocious 
persecution  ; the  managers  w^ere  rascals  ; the  defendant 
was  the  most  deserving  and  the  worst  used  man  in  the 
kingdom.  This  was  the  cant  of  the  whole  palace,  from 
Gold  Stick  in  Waiting,  down  to  the  Table  Deckers  and 
Yeomen  of  the  Silver  Scullery  ; and  Miss  Burney  canted 
like  the  rest,  though  in  livelier  tones,  and  with  less  bitter 
feelings. 

The  account  which  she  has  given  of  the  King’s  illness 
contains  much  excellent  narrative  and  description,  and  will, 
we  think,  be  as  much  valued  by  the  historians  of  a future 
age  as  any  equal  portion  of  Pepys’  or  Evelyn’s  Diaries. 
That  account  shows  also  how  affectionate  and  compassionate 
her  nature  was.  But  it  shows  also,  we  must  say,  that  her 
way  of  life  was  rapidly  impairing  her  powers  of  reasoning 
and  her  sense  of  justice.  We  do  not  mean  to  discuss,  in 
this  place,  the  question,  whether  the  views  of  Mr.  Pitt  or 
those  of  Mr  Fox  respecting  the  regency  were  the  more  cor- 
rect. It  is,  indeed,  quite* needless  to  discuss  that  question: 
for  the  censure  of  Miss  Burney  falls  alike  on  Pitt  and  Fox, 
on  majority  and  minority.  She  is  angry  with  the  House  of 
Commons  for  presuming  to  inquire  whether  the  King  was 


MADAME  D’ARBLAY. 


759 


mad  or  not,  and  whether  there  was  a chance  of  his  recover- 
ing his  senses.  “ A melancholy  day,”  she  writes  ; “ news 
bad  both  at  home  and  abroad.  At  home  the  dear  unhappy 
king  still  worse  ; abroad  new  examinations  voted  of  the 
physicians.  Good  heavens  ! what  an  insult  does  this  seem 
from  Parliamentary  power,  to  investigate  and  bring  forth  to 
the  world  every  circumstance  of  such  a malady  as  is  ever 
held  sacred  to  secrecy  in  the  most  private  families  ! How 
indignant  we  all  feel  here,  no  words  can  say.”  It  is  proper 
to  observe,  that  the  motion  which  roused  all  this  indignation 
at  Kew  was  made  by  Mr.  Pitt  himself.  We  see,  therefore, 
that  the  loyalty  of  the  minister,  who  was  then  generally 
regarded  as  the  most  heroic  champion  of  his  Prince,  was 
lukewarm  indeed  when  compared  with  the  boiling  zeal  which 
filled  the  pages  of  the  backstairs  and  the  women  of  the 
bedchamber.  Of  the  Regency  bill,  Pitt’s  own  bill,  Miss 
Burney  speaks  with  horror.  “ I shuddered,”  she  says,  “ to 
hear  it  named.”  And  again,  “ Oh,  how  dreadful  will  be  the 
day  when  that  unhappy  bill  takes  place  ! I cannot  approve 
the  plan  of  it.”  The  truth  is,  that  Mr.  Pitt,  whether  a wise 
and  upright  statesman  or  not,  was  a statesman  ; and  what- 
ever motives  he  might  have  for  imposing  restrictions  on  the 
regent,  felt  that  in  some  way  or  other  there  must  be  some 
provision  made  for  the  execution  of  some  part  of  the  kingly 
office,  or  that  no  government  would  be  left  in  the  country. 
But  this  was  a matter  of  which  the  household  never  thought. 
It  never  occurred,  as  far  as  we  can  see,  to  the  Exons  and 
Keepers  of  the  Robes,  that  it  was  necessary  that  there  should 
be  somewhere  or  other  a power  in  the  state  to  pass  laws,  to 
preserve  order,  to  pardon  criminals,  to  fill  up  offices,  to  ne- 
gotiate with  foreign  governments,  to  command  the  army  and 
navy.-  Nay,  these  enlightened  politicans,  and  Miss  Burney 
among  the  rest,  seem  to  have  thought  that  any  person  who 
considered  the  subject  with  reference  to  the  public  interest, 
showed  himself  to  be  a badhearted  man.  Nobody  wonders 
at  this  in  a gentleman  usher  ; but  it  is  melancholy  to  see 
genius  sinking  into  such  debasement. 

During  more  than  two  years  after  the  King’s  recovery, 
Frances  dragged  on  a miserable  existence  at  the  palace. 
The  consolations,  which  had  for  a time  mitigated  the 
wretchedness  of  servitude,  were  one  by  one  withdrawn. 
Mrs.  Delany,  whose  society  had  been  a great  resource  when 
the  Court  was  at  Windsor,  was  now  dead.  One  of  the  gentle- 
men of  the  royal  establishment,  Colonel  Digby,  appears  to 


760  MACAULAY  S MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

have  been  a man  of  sense,  of  taste,  of  some  reading,  and  < f pre- 
possessing manners.  Agreeable  associates  were  scarce  in  the 
prison  house,  and  he  and  Miss  Burney  therefore  naturally  be- 
came attached  to  each  other.  She  owns  that  she  valued  him  as 
a friend  ; and  it  would  not  have  been  strange  if  his  attentions 
had  led  her  to  entertain  for  him  a sentiment  warmer  than 
friendship.  lie  quitted  the  Court,  and  married  in  a way 
which  astonished  Miss  Burney  greatly,  and  which  evidently 
wounded  her  feelings,  and  lowered  him  in  her  esteem.  The 
palace  grew  duller  and  duller ; Madame  Scliwellenberg became 
more  and  more  savage  and  insolent ; and  now  the  health  of 
poor  Frances  began  to  give  way ; and  ail  who  saw  her  pale 
face,  her  emaciated  figure,  and  her  feeble  walk,  predicted  that 
her  sufferings  would  soon  be  over. 

Frances  uniformly  speaks  of  her  royal  mistress,  and  of 
the  princesses,  with  respect  and  affection.  The  princesses 
seem  to  have  well  deserved  all  the  praise  which  is  bestowed 
on  them  in  the  Diary.  They  were,  we  doubt  not,  most 
amiable  women.  But  “ the  sweet  queen,”  as  she  is  con- 
stantly called  in  these  volumes,  is  not  by  any  means  an  ob- 
ject of  admiration  to  us.  She  had  undoubtedly  sense  enough 
to  know  what  kind  of  deportment  mited  her  high  station, 
and  self-command  enough  to  maintain  that  deportment  in- 
variably. She  was,  in  her  intercourse  with  Miss  Burney, 
generally  gracious  and  affable,  sometimes,  when  displeased, 
cold  and  reserved,  but  never,  under  any  circumstances,  rude, 
peevish,  or  violent.  She  knew  how  to  dispense,  gracefully 
and  skilfully,  those  little  civilities  which,  when  paid  by  a 
sovereign,  are  prized  at  many  times  their  intrinsic  value ; 
how  to  pay  a compliment ; how  to  lend  a book ; how  to  ask 
after  a relation.  But  she  seems  to  have  been  utterly  re- 
gardless of  the  comfort,  the  health,  the  life  of  her  attendants, 
when  her  own  convenience  was  concerned.  Weak,  feverish, 
hardly  able  to  stand,  Frances  had  still  to  rise  before  seven, 
in  order  to  dress  the  sweet  Queen,  and  to  sit  up  till  midnight, 
in  order  to  undress  the  sweet  Queen.  The  indisposition  of 
the  handmaid  could  not,  and  did  not,  escape  the  notice  of 
her  royal  mistress.  But  the  established  doctrine  of  the 
Court  was,  that  all  sickness  was  to  be  considered  as  a pre- 
tence until  it  proved  fatal.  The  only  way  in  which  the  in- 
valid could  clear  herself  from  the  suspicion  of  malingering, 
as  it  is  called  in  the  army,  was  to  go  on  lacing  and  unlacing, 
till  she  fell  down  dead  at  the  royal  feet.  “ This,”  Miss 
Burney  wrote,  when  she  was  suffering  cruelly  from  sickness. 


MADAME  dVdblAY. 


761 


watching,  and  labor,  “is  by  no  means  from  hardness  of 
heart ; far  otherwise.  There  is  no  hardness  of  heart  in  any 
one  of  them  : but  it  is  prejudice  and  want  of  personal  ex 
perience.” 

Many  strangers  sympathized  with  the  bodily  and  mental 
sufferings  of  this  distinguished  woman.  All  who  saw  her 
saw  that  her  frame  was  sinking,  that  her  heart  was  breaking. 
The  last,  it  should  seem,  to  observe  the  change,  was  her 
father.  At  length,  in  spite  of  himself,  his  eyes  were  opened. 
In  May,  1790,  his  daughter  had'an  interview  of  three  hours 
with  him,  the  only  long  interview  which  they  had  had  since  he 
took  her  to  Windsor  in  1786.  She  told  him  that  she  was 
miserable,  that  she  was  worn  with  attendance  and  want  of 
sleep,  that  she  had  no  comfort  in  life,  nothing  to  love,  noth- 
ing to  hope,  that  her  family  and  friends  were  to  her  as  though 
they  were  not,  and  were  remembered  by  her  as  men  re- 
member the  dead.  From  daybreak  to  midnight  the  same 
killing  labor,  the  same  recreations,  more  hateful  than  labor 
itself,  followed  each  other  without  variety,  without  any  in- 
terval of  liberty  and  repose. 

The  Doctor  was  greatly  dejected  by  this  news;  but 
was  too  goodnatured  a man  not  to  say  that,  if  she  wished  to 
resign,  his  house  and  arms  were  opened  to  her.  Still,  how- 
ever, he  could  not  bear  to  remove  her  from  the  Court.  His 
veneration  for  royalty  amounted  in  truth  to  idolatry.  It 
can  be  compared  only  to  the  grovelling  superstition  of  those 
Syrian  devotees  who  made  their  children  pass  through  the 
fire  to  Moloch.  When  he  induced  his  daughter  to  accept 
the  place  of  keeper  of  the  robes,  he  entertained,  as  she  tells 
us,  a hope  that  some  worldly  advantage  or  other,  not  set 
down  in  the  contract  of  service,  would  be  the  result  of  her 
connection  with  the  Court.  What  advantage  he  expected 
we  do  not  know,  nor  did  he*  probably  know  himself.  But, 
whatever  he  expected,  he  certainly  got  nothing.  Miss 
Burney  had  been  hired  for  board,  lodging,  and  two  hundred 
a year.  Board,  lodging,  and  two  hundred  a year,  she  had 
duly  received  W e have  looked  carefully  through  the  Diary, 
in  the  hope  of  finding  some  trace  of  those  extraordinary 
benefactions  on  "which  the  Doctor  reckoned.  But  we  can 
discover  only  a promise,  never  performed,  of  a gown  : and 
for  this  promise  Miss  Burney  was  expected  to  return  thanks, 
such  as  might  have  suited  the  beggar  with  whom  Saint 
Martin  in  the  legend,  divided  his  cloak.  The  experience 
of  four  years  was,  however,  insufficient  to  dispel  the  illusion 


762 


MACAULAY* S MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


which  had  taken  possession  of  the  Doctor’s  mind ; and,  be* 
tween  the  dear  father  and  the  sweet  Queen,  there  seemed  to 
be  little  doubt  that  some  day  or  other  Frances  would  drop 
down  a corpse.  Six  months  had  elapsed  since  the  interview 
between  the  parent  and  the  daughter.  The  resignation 
was  not  sent  in.  The  sufferer  grew  worse  and  worse.  She 
took  bark  ; but  it  soon  ceased  to  produce  a beneficial  effect. 
She  was  stimulated  with  wine  : she  was  soothed  with  opium ; 
but  in  vain.  Her  breath  began  to  fail.  The  whisper  that 
she  was  in  a decline  spread  through  the  Court.  The  pains 
in  her  side  became  so  severe  that  she  was  forced  to  crawl 
from  the  card  table  of  the  old  Fury  to  whom  she  was  tethered, 
three  or  four  times  in  an  evening,  for  the  purpose  of  taking 
hartshorn.  Had  she  been  a negro  slave,  a humane  planter 
would  have  excused  her  from  work.  But  her  Majesty 
showed  no  merey.  Thrice  a day  the  accursed  bell  still 
rang  ; the  Queen  was  still  to  be  dressed  for  the  morning  at 
seven,  and  to  be  dressed  for  the  day  at  noon,  and  to  be  un- 
dressed at  midnight. 

But  there  had  arisen,  in  literary  and  fashionable  society, 
a general  feeling  of  compassion  for  Miss  Burney,  and  of  in- 
dignation against  both  her  father  and  the  Queen.  “ Is  it 
possible,”  said  a great  French  lady  to  the  Doctor,  “ that 
your  daughter  is  in  a situation  where  she  is  never  allowed 
a holiday  ? ” Horace  Walpole  wrote  to  Frances,  to  express 
his  sympathy,  Boswell,  boiling  over  with  goodnatured  rage, 
almost  forced  an  entrance  into  the  palace  to  see  her.  “ My 
dear  ma’am,  why  do  you  stay  ? It  won’t  do,  ma’am ; you 
must  resign.  We  can  put  up  with  it  no  longer.  Some 
very  violent  measures,  I assure  you,  will  be  taken.  We 
shall  address  Dr.  Burney  in  a body.”  Burke  and  Reynolds, 
though  less  noisy,  were  zealous  in  the  same  cause.  Wind- 
ham spoke  to  Dr.  Burney ; but  found  him  still  irresolute. 
“ I will  set  the  club  upon  him,”  cried  Windham.  “ Miss 
Burney  has  some  very  true  admirers  there,  and  I am  sure 
they  will  eagerly  assist.”  Indeed  the  Burney  family  seem  to 
have  been  apprehensive  that  some  public  affront,  such  as 
the  Doctor’s  unpardonable  folly,  to  use  the  mildest  term, 
had  richly  deserved,  would  be  put  upon  him.  The  medical 
men  spoke  out,  and  plainly  told  him  that  his  daughter  must 
resign  or  die. 

At  last  paternal  affection,  medical  authority,  and  the 
voice  of  all  London  crying  shame,  triumphed  over  Dr.  Bur- 
ney’s love  of  courts.  He  determined  that  Frances  should 


MADAME  d’aEBLAT. 


762 


write  a letter  of  resignation.  It  was  with  difficulty  that, 
though  her  life  was  at  stake,  she  mustered  spirit  to  put  the 
paper  into  the  Queen’s  hands.  “ I could  not,”  so  runs  the 
Diary,  “summon  courage  to  present  my  memorial:  my 
heart  always  failed  me  from  seeing  the  Queen’s  entire  free- 
dom from  such  an  expectation.  For  though  I was  frequently 
so  ill  in  her  presence  that  I could  hardly  stand,  I saw  she 
concluded  me,  while  life  remained,  inevitably  hers.” 

At  last  with  a trembling  hand  the'  paper  was  delivered. 
Then  came  the  storm.  Juno,  as  in  the  iEneid,  delegated 
the  work  of  vengeance  to  Alecto.  The  Queen  was  calm  and 
gentle  ; but  Madame  Schwellenberg  raved  like  a maniac  in 
the  incurable  ward  of  Bedlam  ! Such  insolence ! Such  in- 
gratitude ! Such  folly!  Would  Miss  Burney  bring  utter 
destruction  on  herself  and  her  family?  Would  she  throw 
away  the  inestimable  advantage  of  royal  protection  ? Would 
she  part  with  privileges  which,  once  relinquished,  could 
never  be  regained  ? It  was  idle  to  talk  of  health  and  life. 
If  people  could  not  live  in  the  palace,  the  best  thing  that 
could  befall  them  was  to  die  in  it.  The  resignation  was  not 
accepted.  The  language  of  the  medical  men  became  stronger 
and  stronger*  Dr.  Burney’s  parental  fears  were  fully  roused ; 
and  he  explicitly  declared,  in  a letter  meant  to  be  shown  to 
the  Queen,  that  his  daughter  must  retire.  The  Schwellen- 
berg raged  like  a wild  cat.  “ A scene  almost  horrible  en- 
sued,” says  Miss  Burney.  “ She  was  too  much  enraged  for 
disguise,  and  uttered  the  most  furious  expressions  of  indig- 
nant contempt  at  our  proceedings.  I am  sure  she  would 
gladly  have  confined  us  both  in  the  Bastile,  had  England 
such  a misery,  as  a fit  place  to  bring  us  to  ourselves,  from  a 
daring  so  outrageous  against  imperial  wishes.”  This  pas- 
sage deserves  notice,  as  being  the  only  one  in  the  Diary,  so 
far  as  we  have  observed,  which  shows  Miss  Burney  to  have 
been  aware  that  she  was  a native  of  a free  country,  that  she 
could  not  be  pressed  for  a waiting  maid  against  her  will, 
and  that  she  had  just  as  good  a right  to  live,  if  she  chose,  in 
St.  Martin’s  Street,  as  Queen  Charlotte  had  to  live  ai  Saint 
James’s. 

The  Queen  promised  that,  after  the  next  birthday,  Miss 
Burney  should  be  set  at  liberty.  But  the  promise  was  ill- 
kept  ; and  her  Majesty  showed  great  displeasure  at  being 
reminded  of  it.  At  length  Frances  was  informed  that  in  a 
fortnight  her  attendance  should  cease.  “ I heard  this,”  she 
gays,  “ with  a fearful  presentiment  I should  surely  never  go 


764  MACATJLA f’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

through  another  fortnight,  in  so  weak  and  languishing  and 
painful  a state  of  health.  * * * As  the  time  of  separation 
approached,  the  Queen’s  cordiality  rather  diminished,  and 
traces  of  internal  displeasure  appeared  sometimes,  arising 
from  an  opinion  I ought  rather  to  have  struggled  on,  live  or 
die,  than  to  quit  her.  Yet  I am  sure  she  saw  how  poor  wap 
my  own  chance,  except  by  a change  in  the  mode  of  life,  and 
at  least  ceased  to  wonder,  though  she  could  not  approve.” 
Sweet  Queen  ! What  noble  candor,  to  admit  that  the 
undutifulness  of  people,  wdio  did  not  think  the  honor  of 
adjusting  her  tuckers  worth  the  sacrifice  of  their  own  lives, 
was,  though  highly  criminal,  not  altogether  unnatural! 

We  perfectly  understand  her  Majesty’s  contempt  for  the 
lives  of  others  where  her  own  pleasure  was  concerned.  But 
what  pleasure  she  can  have  found  in  having  Miss  Burney 
about  her,  it  is  not  so  easy  to  comprehend.  That  Miss  Bur- 
ney was  an  eminently  skilful  keeper  of  the  robes  is  not  very 
probable.  Few  'women,  indeed,  had  paid  less  attention  to 
dress.  Now  and  then,  in  the  course  of  five  years,  she  had 
been  asked  to  read  aloud  or  to  write  a copy  of  verses.  But 
better  readers  might  easily  have  been  found  : and  her  verses 
were  worse  than  even  the  Poet  Laureate’s  Birthday  Odes. 
Perhaps  that  economy,  which  was  among  her  Majesty’s  most 
conspicuous  virtues,  had  something  to  do  with  her  conduct 
on  this  occasion.  Miss  Burney  had  never  hinted  that  she 
expected  a retiring  pension  ; and  indeed  would  gladly  have 
given  the  little  that  she  had  for  freedom.  But  her  Majesty 
knew  what  the  public  thought,  and  what  became  her  own 
dignity.  She  could  not  for  very  shame  suffer  a woman  of 
distinguished  genius,  who  had  quitted  a lucrative  career  to 
wait  on  her,  who  had  served  her  faithfully  for  a pittance 
during  five  years,  and  whose  constitution  had  been  impaired 
by  labor  and  watching,  to  leave  the  court  without  some 
mark  of  royal  liberality.  George  the  Third,  who,  on  all  oc- 
casions where  Miss  Burney  was  concerned,  seems  to  Lave 
behaved  like  an  honest,  goodnatured  gentleman,  felt  this, 
and  said  plainly  that  she  was  entitled  to  a provision.  At 
length,  in  return  for  all  the  misery  which  she  had  under' 
gone,  and  for  the  health  which  she  had  sacrificed,  an  annu 
ity  of  one  hundred  pounds  was  granted  to  her,  dependent 
on  the  Queen’s  pleasure. 

Then  the  prison  was  opened  and  Frances  was  free  once 
more.  Johnson,  as  Burke  observed,  might  have  added  a 
striking  page  to  his  poem  on  the  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes, 


MADAME  d’JlRBLAY.  765 

if  he  had  lived  to  see  his  little  Burney  as  she  went  into  the 
palace  and  as  she  came  out  of  it. 

The  pleasures,  so  long  untasted,  of  liberty,  of  friendship, 
of  domestic  affection,  were  almost  too  acute  for  her  shat- 
tered frame.  But  happy  days  and  tranquil  nights  soon  re- 
stored the  health  which  the  Queen’s  toilette  and  Madame 
Schwellenberg’s  cardtable  had  impaired.  Kind  and  anxious 
faces  surrounded  the  invalid.  Conversation  the  most  pol- 
ished and  brilliant  revived  her  spirits.  Travelling  was 
recommended  to  her ; and  she  rambled  by  easy  journeys 
from  cathedral  to  cathedral,  and  from  watering  place  to 
watering  place.  She  crossed  the  New  Forest,  and  visited 
Stonehenge  and  Wilton,  the  cliffs  of  Lyme,  and  the  beauti- 
ful valley  of  Sidmouth.  Thence  she  journeyed  by  Powder- 
ham  Castle,  and  by  the  ruins  of  Glastonbury  Abbey  to  Bath, 
and  from  Bath,  when  the  winter  was  approaching,  returned 
well  and  cheerful  to  London.  There  she  visited  her  old 
dungeon,  and  found  her  successor  already  far  on  the  way  to 
the  grave,  and  kept  to  strict  duty,  from  morning  till  mid- 
night, with  a sprained  ankle  and  a nervous  fever. 

At  this  time  England  swarmed  with  French  exiles  driven 
from  their  country  by  the  Revolution.  A colony  of  these 
refugees  settled  at  Juniper  Hall,  in  Surrey,  not  far  from 
Norbury  Park,  where  Mr.  Locke,  an  intimate  friend  of  the 
Burney  family,  resided.  Frances  visited  Norbury  and  was 
introduced  to  the  strangers.  She  had  strong  prejudices 
against  them ; for  her  Toryism  was  far  beyond,  we  do  not 
say  that  of  Mr.  Pitt,  but  that  of  Mr.  Reeves ; and  the  in- 
mates of  Juniper  Hall  were  all  attached  to  the  constitution 
of  1791,  and  were  therefore  more  detested  by  the  royalists 
of  the  first  emigration  than  Petion  or  Marat.  But  such  a 
woman  as  Miss  Burney  could  not  long  resist  the  fascination 
of  that  remarkable  society.  She  had  lived  with  Johnson 
and  Wyndham,  with  Mrs.  Montague  and  Mrs.  Thrale.  Yet 
she  was  forced  to  own  that  she  had  never  heard  conversa- 
tion  before.  The  most  animated  eloquence,  the  keenest  ob- 
servation, the  most  sparkling  wit,  the  most  courtly  grace, 
were  united  to  charm  her.  For  Madame  de  Stael  was 
there,  and  M.  de  Talleyrand.  There  too  was  M.  de  Nar- 
bonne,  a noble  representative  of  French  aristocracy ; and 
with  M.  de  Narbonne  was  his  friend  and  follower  General 
D’Arblay,  an  honorable  and  amiable  man,  with  a handsome 
person,  frank  soldierlike  manners,  and  some  taste  for  letters. 

The  prejudices  which  Frances  had  conceived  against  the 


766  maoaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

constitutional  royalists  of  France  rapidly  vanished.  She 
listened  with  rapture  to  Talleyrand  and  Madame  de  Stael, 
joined  with  M.  Arblay  in  execrating  the  Jacobins  and  in 
weeping  for  the  unhappy  Bourbons,  took  French  lessons 
from  him,  fell  in  love  with  him,  and  married  him  on  no 
better  provision  than  a precarious  annuity  of  one  hundred 
pounds. 

Here  the  Diary  stops  for  the  present.  We  will,  there- 
fore, bring  our  narrative  to  a speedy  close,  by  rapidly  re- 
counting the  most  important  events  which  we  know  to  have 
befallen  Madame  D’ Arblay  during  the  latter  part  of  her 
life. 

M.  D’Arblay’s  fortune  had  perished  in  the  general  wreck 
of  the  French  Revolution ; and  in  a foreign  country  his 
talents,  whatever  they  may  have  been,  could  scarcely  make 
him  rich.  The  task  of  providing  for  the  family  devolved 
on  his  wife.  In  the  year  1796,  she  published  by  subscrip- 
tion her  third  novel,  Camilla.  It  was  impatiently  expected 
by  the  public  ; and  the  sum  which  she  obtained  for  it  was, 
we  believe,  greater  than  had  ever  at  that  time  been  received 
for  a novel.  We  have  heard  that  she  cleared  more  than 
three  thousand  guineas.  But  we  give  this  merely  as  a 
rumor.  Camilla,  however,  never  attained  popularity  like 
that  which  Evelina  and  Cecilia  had  enjoyed ; and  it  must 
be  allowed  that  there  was  a perceptible  falling  off,  not  in- 
deed in  humor  or  in  power  of  portraying  character,  but  in 
grace  and  in  purity  of  style. 

We  have  heard  that  about  this  time,  a tragedy  by  Madame 
D’Arblay  was  performed  without  success.  We  do  not 
know  whether  it  was  ever  printed  ; nor  indeed  have  we  had 
time  to  make  any  researches  into  its  history  or  merits. 

During  the  short  truce  which  followed  the  treaty  of 
Amiens,  M.  D’Arblay  visited  France.  Lauriston  and  La 
Fayette  represented  his  claims  to  the  French  government, 
and  obtained  a promise  that  he  should  be  reinstated  in  his 
military  rank.  M.  D’Arblay,  however,  insisted  that  he 
should  never  be  required  to  serve  against  the  countrymen 
of  his  wife.  The  First  Consul,  of  course,  would  not  hear  of 
such  a condition,  and  ordered  the  general’s  commission  to 
be  instantly  revoked. 

Madame  D’Arblay  joined  her  husband  at  Paris,  a short 
time  before  the  war  of  1803  broke  out,  and  remained  in 
France  ten  years,  cut  off  from  almost  all  intercourse  with 
the  land  of  her  birth,  At  length5  when  Napoleon  was  on 


MADAMS  d’aRBLAY. 


767 


his  march  to  Moscow,  she  with  great  difficulty  obtained  from 
his  ministers  permission  to  visit  her  own  country,  in  com- 
pany with  her  son,  who  was  a native  of  England.  She 
returned  in  time  to  receive  the  last  blessing  of  her  father, 
who  died  in  his  eighty-seventh  year.  In  1814  she  published 
her  last  novel,  the  Wanderer,  a book  which  no  judicious 
friend  to  her  memory  will  attempt  to  draw  from  the  oblivion 
into  which  it  has  justly  fallen.  In  the  same  year,  her  son 
Alexander  was  sent  to  Cambridge.  He  obtained  an  honor- 
able place  among  the  wranglers  of  his  year,  and  was  elected 
a fellow  of  Christ’s  College.  But  his  reputation  at  the  Uni- 
versity was  higher  than  might  be  inferred  from  his  success 
in  academical  contests.  His  French  education  had  not 
fitted  him  for  the  examinations  of  the  Senate  House ; but, 
in  pure  mathematics,  we  have  been  assured  by  some  of  his 
competitors  that  he  had  very  few  equals.  He  went  into  the 
church,  and  it  was  thought  likely  that  he  would  attain  high 
eminence  as  a preacher ; but  he  died  before  his  mother. 
All  that  we  have  heard  of  him  leads  us  to  believe  that  he 
was  such  a son  as  such  a mother  deserved  to  have.  In 
1832,  Madame  D’Arblay  published  the  memoirs  of  her 
father ; and  on  the  sixth  of  January,  1840,  she  died  in  her 
eighty-eighth  year. 

We  now  turn  from  the  life  of  Madame  D’Arblay  to  her 
writings.  There  can,  we  apprehend,  be  little  difference  of 
opinion  as  to  the  nature  of  her  merit,  whatever  differences 
may  exist  as  to  its  degree.  She  was  emphatically  what 
Johnson  called  her,  a character-monger.  It  was  in  the  ex- 
hibition of  human  passions  and  whims  that  her  strength  lay  ; 
and  in  this  department  of  art  she  had,  we  think,  very  distin- 
guished skill. 

But  in  order  that  we  may,  according  to  our  duty  as 
kings  at  arms,  versed  in  the  laws  of  literary  precedence, 
marshal  her  to  the  exact  seat  to  which  she  is  entitled,  we 
must  carry  our  examination  somewhat  further. 

There  is,  in  one  respect,  a remarkable  analogy  between 
the  faces  and  the  minds  of  men.  No  two  faces  are  alike; 
and  yet  very  few  faces  deviate  very  widely  from  the  common 
standard.  Among  the  eighteen  hundred  thousand  human 
beings  who  inhabit  London,  there  is  not  one  who  could  be 
taken  by  his  acquaintance  for  another ; yet  we  may  walk 
from  Paddington  to  Mile  End  without  seeing  one  person  in 
whom  any  feature  is  so  overcharged  that  we  turn  round  to 
»tare  at  it.  An  infinite  number  of  varieties  lies  between 


768  IIACAULAt’s  BnSCELLANEOlTS  WRITINGS. 

limits  which  are  not  very  far  asunder.  The  specimens 
which  pass  those  limits  on  either  side,  form  a very  small 
minority. 

It  is  the  same  with  the  characters  of  men.  Here,  too,  the 
variety  passes  all  enumeration.  But  the  cases  in  which  the 
deviation  from  the  common  standard  is  striking  and  gro- 
tesque, are  very  few.  In  one  mind  avarice  predominates ; 
m another,  pride ; in  a third,  love  of  pleasure;  just  as  in  one 
countenance  the  nose  is  the  most  marked  feature,  while  in 
others  the  chief  expression  lies  in  the  brow,  or  in  the  lines 
of  the  mouth.  But  there  are  very  few  countenances  in 
which  nose,  brow,  and  mouth  do  not  contribute,  though  in 
unequal  degrees,  to  the  general  effect ; and  so  there  are  very 
few  characters  in  whicli  one  overgrown  propensity  makes  all 
others  utterly  insignificant. 

It  is  evident  that  a portrait-painter,  who  was  able  only 
to  represent  faces  and  figures  such  as  those  which  we  pay 
money  to  see  at  fairs,  would  not,  however  spirited  his  exe- 
cution might  be,  take  rank  among  the  highest  artists.  He 
must  always  be  placed  below  those  who  have  skill  to  seize 
the  peculiarities  which  do  not  amount  to  deformity.  The 
slighter  those  peculiarities,  the  greater  is  the  merit  of  the 
limner  who  can  catch  them  and  transfer  them  to  his  canvas. 
To  paint  Daniel  Lambert  or  the  living  skeleton,  the  pig 
faced  lady  or  the  Siamese  twins  so  that  nobody  can  mistake 
them,  is  an  exploit  within  the  reach  of  a sign-painter.  A 
third-rate  artist  might  give  us  the  squint  of  Wilkes,  and  the 
depressed  nose  and  protuberant  cheeks  of  Gibbon.  It  would 
require  a much  higher  degree  of  skill  to  paint  two  such  men 
as  Mr.  Canning  and  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence,  so  that  nobody 
who  had  ever  seen  them  could  for  a moment  hesitate  to  as- 
sign each  picture  to  its  original.  Here  the  mere  caricaturist 
would  be  quite  at  fault.  He  would  find  in  neither  face  any- 
thing on  whicli  he  could  lay  hold  for  the  purpose  of  making 
a distinction.  Two  ample  bald  foreheads,  two  regular  pro- 
files, two  full  faces  of  the  same  oval  form,  would  bafBe  has 
art ; and  he  would  be  reduced  to  the  miserable  shift  of 
writing  their  names  at  the  foot  of  his  picture.  Yet  there 
was  a great  difference ; and  a person  who  had  seen  them 
once  would  no  more  have  mistaken  one  of  them  for  the 
other,  than  he  would  have  mistaken  Mr.  Pitt  for  Mr.  Fox. 
But  the  difference  lay  in  delicate  lineaments  and  shades,  re- 
served for  pencils  of  a rare  order. 

This  distinction  runs  through  all  the  imitative  arts. 


MADAME  d’ARBLAY. 


769 


Foote’s  mimicry  was  exquisitely  ludicrous,  but  it  was  all 
caricature.  He  could  take  off  only  some  strange  peculiarity, 
a stammer  or  a lisp,  a Northumbrian  burr  or  an  Irish  brogue, 
a stoop  or  a shuffle.  “ If  a man,”  said  Johnson,  “ hops  on 
one  leg,  Foote  can  hop  on  one  leg.”  Garrick,  on  the  other 
hand,  could  seize  those  differences  of  manner  and  pronun- 
ciation, which,  though  highly  characteristic,  are  yet  too 
slight  to  be  described.  Foote,  we  have  no  doubt,  could 
have  made  the  Haymarket  theatre  shake  with  laughter  by 
imitating  a conversation  between  a Scotchman  and  a Somer. 
setshireman.  But  Garrick  could  have  imitated  a conversa- 
tion between  two  fashionable  men,  both  models  of  the  best 
breeding,  Lord  Chesterfield,  for  example,  and  Lord  Albe- 
marle, so  that  no  person  could  doubt  which  was  which, 
although  no  person  could  say  that,  in  any  point,  either  Lord 
Chesterfield  or  Lord  Albemarle  spoke  or  moved  otherwise 
than  in  conformity  with  the  usages  of  the  best  society. 

The  same  distinction  is  found  in  the  drama  and  in  ficti- 
tious narrative.  Highest  among  those  who  have  exhibited 
human  nature  by  means  of  dialogue,  stands  Shakspeare. 
His  variety  is  like  the  variety  of  nature,  endless  diversity, 
scarcely  any  monstrosity.  The  characters  of  which  he  has 
given  us  an  impression,  as  vivid  as  that  which  we  received 
from  the  characters  of  our  own  associates,  are  to  be  reckoned 
by  scores.  Yet  in  all  these  scores  hardly  one  character  is 
to  be  found  which  deviates  widely  from  the  common  stand- 
ard, and  which  we  should  call  very  eccentric  if  we  met  it 
in  real  life.  The  silly  notion  that  every  man  has  one  ruling 
passion,  and  that  this  clue,  once  known,  unravels  all  the 
mysteries  of  his  conduct,  finds  no  countenance  in  the  plays 
of  Shakspeare.  There  man  appears  as  he  is,  made  up  of  a 
crowd  of  passions,  which  contend  for  the  mastery  over  him 
and  govern  him  in  turn.  What  is  Hamlet’s  ruling  passion  ? 
Or  Othello’s?  Or  Harry  the  Fifth’s?  OrWolsey’s?  Or 
Lear’s  ? Or  Shylock’s  ? Or  Benedick’s  ? Or  Macbeth’s  ? 
Or  that  of  Cassius  ? Or  that  of  Faiconbridge  ? But  we 
might  go  on  for  ever.  Take  a single  example,  Shylock.  Is 
he  so  eager  for  money  as  to  be  indifferent  to  revenge  ? Or 
so  eager  for  revenge  as  to  be  indifferent  to  money  ? Or  so 
bent  on  both  together  as  to  be  indifferent  to  the  honor  of 
his  nation  and  the  law  of  Moses  ? All  his  propensities  are 
mingled  with  each  other,  so  that,  in  trying  to  apportion  to 
each  its  proper  part,  we  find  the  same  difficulty  which  con- 
stantly meets  us  in  real  life.  A superficial  critic  may  say, 
Ngl.XL— 49 


770 


macaxjlay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


tliat  hatred  is  Shylock’s  ruling  passion.  But  how  many 
passions  have  amalgamated  to  form  that  hatred?  It  is 
partly  the  result  of  wounded  pride : Antonio  lias  called  him 
dog.  It  is  partly  the  result  of  covetousness  : Antonio  has 
hindered  him  of  half  a million  ; and,  when  Antonio  is  gone, 
there  will  be  no  limit  to  the  gains  of  usury.  It  is  partly  the 
result  of  national  and  religious  feeling;  Antonio  has  spit  on 
the  Jewish  gaberdine ; and  the  oath  of  revenge  has  been 
sworn  by  the  Jewish  Sabbath.  We  might  go  through  all 
the  characters  which  we  have  mentioned,  and  through  fifty 
more  in  the  same  way ; for  it  is  the  constant  manner  of 
Shakspeare  to  represent  the  human  mind  as  lying,  not  under 
the  absolute  dominion  of  one  despotic  propensity,  but  under 
a mixed  government,  in  which  a hundred  powers  balance 
each  other.  Admirable  as  he  was  in  all  parts  of  his  art,  we 
most  admire  him  for  this,  that  while  he  has  left  us  a greater 
number  of  striking  portraits  than  all  other  dramatists  put 
together,  he  has  scarcely  left  us  a single  caricature. 

Shakspeare  has  had  neither  equal  nor  second.  But 
among  the  writers  who,  in  the  point  which  we  have  noticed, 
have  approached  nearest  to  the  manner  of  the  great  master, 
we  have  no  hesitation  in  placing  Jane  Austen,  a woman  of 
whom  England  is  justly  proud.  She  has  given  us  a multi- 
tude of  characters,  all,  in  a certain  sense,  commonplace,  all 
such  as  we  meet  every  day.  Yet  they  are  all  as  perfectly 
discriminated  from  each  other  as  if  they  were  the  most  ec- 
centric of  human  beings.  There  are,  for  instance,  four 
clergymen,  none  of  whom,  we  should  be  surprised  to  find 
in  any  parsonage  in  the  kingdom,  Mr.  Edward  Ferrars, 
Mr.  Ilenry  Tilney,  Mr.  Edmund  Bertram,  and  Mr.  Elton. 
They  are  all  specimens  of  the  upper  part  of  the  middle 
class.  They  have  all  been  liberally  educated.  They  all  lie 
under  the  restraints  of  the  same  sacred  profession.  They 
are  all  young.  They  are  all  in  love.  Not  one  of  them  has 
any  hobbyhorse,  to  use  the  phrase  of  Sterne.  Not  one  has 
a ruling  passion,  such  as  we  read  of  m Pope.  Who  would 
not  have  expected  them  to  be  insipid  likenesses  of  each  other? 
No  such  thing.  Harpagon  is  not  more  unlike  to  Jourdain, 
Joseph  Surface  is  not  more  unlike  to  Sir  Lucius  O’Trigger, 
than  every  one  of  Miss  Austen’s  young  divines  to  all  his 
reverend  brethren.  And  almost  all  this  is  done  by  touches 
so  delicate,  thjj£  they  , elude  analysis,  that  they  defy  tho 
powers  of  description,  and  that  we  know  them  to  exist 
only  by  the  general  effect  to  which  they  have  contributed? 


MADAME  D'ARBLAY. 


771 


A line  must  be  drawn,  we  conceive,  between  artists  of 
this  class,  and  those  poets  and  novelists  whose  skill  lies  in  the 
exhibiting  of  what  Ben  Jonson  called  humors.  The  words 
of  Ben  are  so  much  to  the  purpose  that  we  will  quote 
them : 

“When  some  one  peculiar  quality 
Doth  so  possess  a man,  that  it  doth  draw 
All  his  affects,  his  spirits,  and  his  powers. 

In  their  confluxions  all  to  run  one  way, 

This  may  be  truly  said  to  be  a humor.” 

There  are  undoubtedly  persons,  in  whom  humors  such 
as  Ben  describes  have  attained  a complete  ascendency.  The 
avarice  of  Elwes,  the  insane  desire  of  Sir  Egerton  Brydgcs 
for  a barony  to  which  he  had  no  more  right  than  to  the 
crown  of  Spain,  the  malevolence  which  long  meditation  on 
imaginary  wrongs  generated  in  the  gloomy  mind  of  Belling- 
ham, are  instances.  The  feeling  which  animated  Clarkson  and 
other  virtuous  men  against  the  slave  trade  and  slavery,  is 
an  instance  of  a more  honorable  kind. 

Seeing  that  such  humors  exist,  we  cannot  deny  that  they 
are  proper  subjects  for  the  imitations  of  art.  But  we  con- 
ceive that  the  imitation  of.  such  humors,  however  skilful 
and  amusing,  is  not  an  achievement  of  the  highest  order ; 
and,  as  such  humors  are  rare  in  real  life,  they  ought,  we  con- 
ceive, to  be  sparingly  introduced  into  works  which  profess 
to  be  pictures  of  real  life.  Nevertheless,  a writer  may  show 
so  much  genius  in  the  exhibition  of  these  humors  as  to  be 
fairly  entitled  to  a distinguished  and  permanent  rank  among 
classics.  The  chief  seats  of  all,  however,  the  places  on  the 
dais  and  under  the  canopy,  are  reserved  for  the  few  who 
have  excelled  in  the  difficult  art  of  portraying  characters 
in  which  no  single  feature  is  extravagantly  overcharged. 

If  we  have  expounded  the  law  soundly,  we  can  have  no 
difficulty  in  applying  it  to  the  particular  case  before  us. 
Madame  D’Arblay  has  left  us  scarcely  anything  but  humors. 
Almost  every  one  of  her  men  and  women  has  some  one  pro- 
pensity developed  to  a morbid  degree.  In  Cecilia,  for  ex- 
ample, Mr.  Del  vile  never  opens  his  lips  without  some  allu- 
sion to  his  own  birth  and  station  ; or  Mr.  Briggs,  without 
some  allusion  to  the  hoarding  of  money;  or  Mr.  Hobson, 
without  betraying  the  self-indulgence  and  self-importance  of 
a purse-proud  up&tart;  or  Mr.  Simkins,  without  uttering 
some  sneaking  remark  for  the  purpose  of  currying  favor 
With  his  customers  5 or  Mr,  Meadows,  without  expressing 


Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writistSs, 


?72 

apathy  and  weariness  of  life ; or  Mr.  Albany,  without  de- 
claiming about  the  vices  of  the  rich  and  the  misery  of  the 
poor ; or  Mrs.  Belfield,  without  some  indelicate  eulogy  on 
her  son;  or  Lady  Margaret,  without  indicating  jealousy  of 
her  husband.  Morrice  is  all  skipping,  officious  imperti- 
nence, Mr.  Gosport  all  sarcasm,  Lady  Ilonoria  all  lively  prat- 
i le,  Miss  Larolles  all  silly  prattle.  If  ever  Madame  D’Arblay 
aimed  at  more,  we  do  not  think  that  she  succeeded  well. 

We  are,  therefore,  forced  to  refuse  to  Madame  D’Arblay 
a place  in  the  highest  rank  of  art;  but  we  cannot  deny 
that,  in  the  rank  to  which  she  belonged,  she  had  few  equals, 
and  scarcely  any  superior.  The  variety  of  humors  which  is 
to  be  found  in  her  novels  is  immense  ; and  though  the  talk 
of  each  person  sej^arately  is  monotonous,  the  general  effect 
is  not  monotony,  but  a very  lively  and  agreeable  diversity. 
Her  plots  are  rudely  constructed  and  improbable,  if  we  con- 
sider them  in  themselves.  But  they  are  admirably  framed, 
for  the  purpose  of  exhibiting  striking  groups  of  eccentric 
characters,  each  governed  by  his  own  peculiar  whim,  each 
talking  his  own  peculiar  jargon,  and  each  bringing  out  by 
opposition  the  oddities  of  all  the  rest.  We  will  give  one 
example  out  of  many  which  occur  to  us.  All  probability  is 
violated  in  order  to  bring  Mr.  Delvile,  Mr.  Briggs,  Mr.  Hob- 
son, and  Mr.  Albany  into  a room  together.  But  when  we 
have  them  there,  we  soon  forget  probability  in  the  exquis- 
itely ludicrous  effect  which  is  produced  by  the  conflict  of 
four  old  fools,  each  raging  with  a monomania  of  his  own, 
each  talking  a dialect  of  his  own,  and  each  inflaming  all  tho 
others  anew  every  time  he  opens  his  mouth. 

Madame  D’Arblay  was  most  successful  in  comedy,  and 
indeed  in  comedy  which  bordered  on  farce.  But  we  are  in- 
clined to  infer  from  some  passages,  both  in  Cecilia  and 
Camilla,  that  she  might  have  attained  equal  distinction  in 
the  pathetic.  We  have  formed  this  judgment,  less  from 
those  ambitious  scenes  of  distress  which  lie  near  the  cata& 
trophe  of  each  of  those  novels,  than  from  some  exquisite 
strokes  of  natural  tenderness  which  take  us  here  and  there 
by  surprise.  We  would  mention  as  examples,  Mrs.  Hill’s 
account  of  her  little  boy’s  death  in  Cecilia,  and  the  parting 
of  SL  Hugh  Tyrold  and  Camilla,  when  the  honest  baronet 
thinks  himself  dying. 

It  is  melancholy  to  think  that  the  wffiole  fame  of  Madame 
D’Arblay  rests  on  what  she  did  during  the  earlier  half  of 
her  life,  and  that  everything  which  she  published  during  the 


MADAME  d’aRBLAY. 


773 


forty-three  years  which  preceded  her  death,  lowered  her  rep- 
utation. Yet  we  have  no  reason  to  think  that  at  the  time 
when  her  faculties  ought  to  have  been  in  their  maturity, 
they  were  smitten  with  any  blight.  In  the  Wanderer,  w*j 
catch  now  and  then  a gleam  of  her  genius.  Even  in  the 
Memoirs  of  her  father,  there  is  no  trace  of  dotage.  They 
are  very  bad ; but  they  are  so,  as  it  seems  to  us,  not  from  a 
decay  of  power,  but  from  a total  perversion  of  power. 

The  truth  is,  that  Madame  D’Arblay’s  style  underwent 
a gradual  and  most  pernicious  change,  a change  which,  in 
degree  at  least,  we  believe  to  be  unexampled  in  literary  his- 
tory, and  of  which  it  may  be  useful  to  trace  the  progress. 

When  she  wrote  her  letters  to  Mr.  Crisp,  her  early  jour- 
nals, and  her  first  novel,  her  style  was  not  indeed  brilliant 
or  energetic ; but  it  was  easy,  clear,  and  free  from  all  offen- 
sive faults.  When  she  wrote  Cecilia  she  aimed  higher.  She 
had  then  lived  much  in  a circle  of  which  Johnson  was  the 
centre  ; and  she  was  herself  one  of  his  most  submissive  wor- 
shippers. It  seems  never  to  have  crossed  her  mind  that  the 
style  even  of  his  best  writings  was  by  no  means  faultless, 
and  that  even  had  it  been  faultless,  it  might  not  be  wise  in 
her  to  imitate  it.  Phraseology  which  is  proper  in  a disqui- 
sition on  the  Unities,  or  in  a preface  to  a Dictionary,  may 
be  quite  out  of  place  in  a tale  of  fashionable  life.  Old  gen- 
tlemen do  not  criticize  the  reigning  modes,  nor  do  young 
gentlemen  make  love,  with  the  balanced  epithets  and  sonor- 
ous cadences  which,  on  occasions  of  great  dignity,  a skilful 
writer  may  use  with  happy  effect. 

In  an  evil  hour  the  author  of  Evelina  took  the  Rambler 
for  her  model.  This  would  not  have  been  wise  even  if  she 
could  have  imitated  her  pattern  as  well  as  Hawkesworth 
did.  But  such  imitation  was  beyond  her  power.  She  had 
her  own  style.  It  was  a tolerably  good  one ; and  might* 
without  any  violent  change,  have  been  improved  into  a very 
good  one.  She  determined  to  throw  it  away,  and  to  adopt  a 
style  in  which  she  could  attain  excellence  only  by  achieving 
an  almost  miraculous  victory  over  nature  and  over  habit* 
She  could  cease  to  be  Fanny  Burney ; it  was  not  so  easy  to 
become  Samuel  Johnson. 

In  Cecilia  the  change  of  manner  began  to  appear.  But 
in  Cecilia  the  imitation  of  Johnson,  though  not  always  in 
the  best  taste,  is  sometimes  eminently  happy  ; and  the  pas- 
sages which  are  so  verbose  as  to  be  positively  offensive,  are 
few.  There  were  people  who  whispered  that  Johnson  had 


774  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

assisted  his  young  friend,  and  that  the  novel  owed  all  its 
finest  passages  to  his  hand.  This  was  merely  the  fabrica- 
tion of  envy.  Miss  Burney’s  real  excellences  were  as  much 
beyond  the  reach  of  Johnson,  as  his  real  excellences  were 
beyond  her  reach.  lie  could  no  more  have  written  the 
Masquerade  scene,  or  the  Vauxhall  scene,  than  she  could 
have  written  the  Life  of  Cowley  or  the  Review  of  Soame 
Jcnyns.  But  we  have  not  the  smallest  doubt  that  he  re- 
vised Cecilia,  and  that  he  retouched  the  style  of  many  pas- 
sages. We  know  that  he  was  in  the  habit  of  giving  assist- 
ance of  this  kind  most  freely.  Goldsmith,  Hawkesworth, 
Boswell,  Lord  Hailes,  Mrs.  Williams,  were  among  those 
who  obtained  his  help.  Nay,  he  even  corrected  the  poetry 
of  Mr.  Crabbe,  whom,  we  believe,  he  had  never  seen.  When 
Miss  Burney  thought  of  writing  a comedy,  he  promised  to 
give  her  his  best  counsel,  though  he  owned  that  he  was  not 
particularly  well  qualified  to  advise  on  matters  relating  to 
the  stage.  We  therefore  think  it  m the  highest  degree  im- 
probable that  his  little  Fanny,  when  living  in  habits  of  the 
most  affectionate  intercourse  with  him,  would  have  brought 
out  an  important  work  without  consulting  him ; and,  when 
we  look  into  Cecilia,  we  see  such  traces  of  his  hand  in  the 
grave  and  elevated  passages  as  it  is  impossible  to  mistake 
Before  we  conclude  this  article,  we  will  give  two  or  three 
examples. 

When  next  Madame  D’Arblay  appeared  before  the  world 
as  a writer,  she  was  in  a very  different  situation.  She 
would  not  content  herself  with  the  simple  English  in  which 
Evelina  had  been  written.  She  had  no  longer  the  friend  who, 
we  are  confident,  had  polished  and  strengthened  the  style  of 
Cecilia.  She  had  to  write  in  Johnson’s  manner  without 
Johnson’s  aid.  The  consequence  was,  that  in  Camilla  every 
passage  which  she  meant  to  be  fine  is  detestable ; and  that 
the  book  lias  been  saved  from  condemnation  only  by  the  ad- 
mirable spirit  and  force  of  those  scenes  in  which  she  was 
content  to  be  familiar. 

But  there  was  to  be  a still  deeper  descent.  After  the 
publication  of  Camilla,  Madame  D’Arblay  resided  ten  years 
at  Paris.  During  those  years  there  was  scarcely  any  inter- 
course beiw  tn  France  and  England.  It  was  with  difficulty 
that  a short  letter  could  occasionally  be  transmitted.  All 
Madame  D’Arblay’s  companions  were  French.  She  must 
have  written,  spoken,  thought  in  French.  Ovid  expressed 
his  fear  that  a shorter  exile  might  have  affected  the  purity 


MAI/aME  d arblay. 


775 


of  his  Latin.  Luring  a shorter  exile,  Gibbon  unlearned  his 
native  English.  Madame  D’Arblay  had  carried  a bad  style 
to  France.  She  brought  back  a style  which  we  arc  really  at 
a loss  to  describe.  It  is  a sort  of  broken  Johnsonese,  a bar- 
barous patois , bearing  the  same  relation  to  the  language  of 
Rasselas,  which  the  gibberish  of  the  Negroes  of  Jamaica 
bears  to  the  English  of  the  House  of  Lords.  Sometimes  it 
reminds  us  of  the  finest,  that  is  to  say,  the  vilest  parts,  of 
Mr.  Galt’s  novels  ; sometimes  of  the  perorations  of  Exeter 
Hall ; sometimes  of  the  leading  articles  of  the  Morning 
Post.  But  it  most  resembles  the  puffs  of  Mr.  Rowland  and 
Dr.  Goss.  It  matters  not  what  ideas  are  clothed  in  such  a 
style.  The  genius  of  Shakspeare  and  Bacon  united  would 
not  save  a work  so  written  from  general  derision. 

It  is  only  by  means  of  specimens  that  we  can  enable  our 
readers  to  judge  how  widely  Madame  L’Arblay’s  three 
styles  differed  from  each  other. 

The  following  passage  was  written  before  she  became  in- 
timate with  Johnson.  It  is  from  Evelina. 

“ His  son  seems  weaker  in  his  understanding,  and  more  gay  in  his  temper; 
but  his  gayety  is  that  of  a foolish  overgrown  schoolboy,  whose  mirth  con- 
sists in  noise  and  disturbance.  lie  disdains  his  father  for  his  close  atten- 
tion to  business  and  love  of  money,  though  he  seems  himself  to  have  no 
talents,  spirit,  or  generosity  to  make  him  superior  to  either.  His  chief  de- 
light appears  to  be  in  tormenting  and  ridiculing  his  sisters,  who  in  return 
most  cordially  despise  him.  Miss  Brangh ton,  the  eldest  daughter,  is  by  no 
means  ugly  ; but  looks  proud,  ill-tempered  and  conceited.  She  hates  the 
city,  though  without  know  ing  why  ; for  it  is  easy  to  discover  she  has  lived 
nowhere  else.  Miss  Polly  Branghton  is  rather  pretty,  very  foolish,  very 
ignorant,  very  giddy,  and,  I believe,  very  good-natured.’' 

This  is  not  a fine  style,  but  simply  perspicuous  and 
agreeable.  We  now  come  to  Cecilia,  written  during  Miss 
Burney’s  intimacy  with  Johnson  ; and  we  leave  it  to  our 
readers  to  judge  whether  the  following  passage  was  not  at 
least  corrected  by  his  hand. 

“ It  is  rather  an  imaginary  than  an  actual  evil,  and  though  a deep  wound 
to  pride,  no  offence  to  morality.  Thus  have  I laid  open  to  you  my  whole 
heart,  confessed  my  perplexities,  acknowledged  my  vainglory,  and  exposed 
with  equal  sincerity  the  sources  of  my  doubts  and  the  motives  of  my  de- 
cision. But  now,  indeed,  how  to  proceed  I know  not.  The  difficulties  which, 
are  yet  to  encounter  I fear  to  enumerate,  and  the  petition  1 have  to  urge  I 
have  scarce  courage  to  mention.  My  family,  mistaking  ambition  for  honor, 
and  rank  for  dignity,  have  long  planned  a splendid  connection  for  me,  to 
which,  though  my  invariable  repugnance  has  stopped  any  advances,  their 
wishes  and  their  views  immovably  adhere.  I am  but  too  certain  they  will 
now  listen  to  no  other.  I dread,  therefore,  to  make  a trial  where  I despair 
of  success.  I know  not  how  to  risk  a prayer  with  those  who  may  silence  me 
by  a command/* 

Take  now  a specimen  of  Madame  D’Arblay’s  later  style. 


776 


MACAULAY* s miscellaneous  writings. 


This  is  the  way  in  which  she  tells  us  that  her  father,  on  La 
journey  back  from  the  Continent,  caught  the  rheumatism. 

“ He  was  assaulted,  during  his  precipitated  return,  by  the  rudest  fierce- 
ness of  wintry  elemental  strife  ; through  which,  with  bad  accommodations 
and  innumerable  accidents,  he  became  a prey  to  the  merciless  pangs  of  the 
acutest  spasmodic  rheumatism,  which  barely  suffered  him  to  reach  bis 
home,  ere  long  and  piteously,  it  confined  him,  a tortured  prisoner,  to  his 
bed.  Such  was  the  check  that  almost  instantly  curbed,  though  it  could  not 
subdue,  the  rising-pleasure  of  his  hopes  of  entering  upon  a new  species  of 
existence — that  of  an  approved  man  of  letters  ; lor  it  was  on  the  bed  of 
sickness,  exchanging  the  light  wines  of  trance,  Italy,  and  Germany  for  the 
black  and  loathsome  potions  of  the  Apothecaries’  Hall,  writhed  by  darting 
stitches,  and  burning  with  fiery  fever,  that  he  felt  the  full  force  of  that  sub- 
lunary equipoise  that  seemed  evermore  to  hang  suspended  over  the  attain- 
ment of  long-sought  and  uncommon  felicity,  just  as  it  is  ripening  to  burst 
forth  with  enjoyment ! ” 

Here  is  a second  passage  from  Evelina. 

“ Mrs.  Selwyn  is  very  kind  and  attentive  to  me.  She  is  extremely  clever 
Her  understanding  indeed,  may  be  called  masculine  ; but  unfortunately  her 
manners  deserve  the  same  epithet ; for,  in  studying  to  acquire  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  other  sex,  she  has  lost  all  the  softness  of  her  own.  In  regard  to 
myself,  however,  as  I have  neither  courage  nor  inclination  to  argue  with  her, 
I have  never  been  personally  hurt  at  her  want  of  gentleness,  a virtue  which 
nevertheless  seems  so  essential  a part  of  the  female  character,  that  I find 
myself  more  awkward  and  less  at  ease  with  a woman  who  wants  it  than  I 
do  with  a man.” 

This  is  a good  style  of  its  kind  ; and  the  following  pas- 
sage from  Cecelia  is  also  in  a good  style,  though  not  in  a 
faultless  one.  We  say  with  confidence,  either  Sam  John- 
son or  the  Devil. 

‘‘Even  the  imperious  Mr.  Delvile  was  more  supportable  here  than  in  Lon- 
don. Secure  in  his  own  castle,  he  looked  round  him  with  a pride  of  power 
and  possession  which  softened  while  it  swelled  him.  His  superiority  was 
undisputed  : his  will  was  without  control.  He  was  not,  as  in  the  great  capi- 
tal of  the  kingdom,  surrounded  by  competitors.  No  rivalry  disturbed  his 
peace  ; no  equality  mortified  his  greatness.  All  he  saw  were  either  vassals 
of  his  power,  or  guests  bending  to  his  pleasure.  He  abated,  therefore,  con- 
siderably the  stern  gloom  of  his  haughtiness,  and  soothed  his  proud  mind 
by  the  courtesy  of  condescension." 

We  will  stake  our  reputation  for  critical  sagacity  on 
this,  that  no  such  paragraph  as  that  which  we  have  last 
quoted  can  be  found  in  any  of  Madame  D’Arblay’s  works, 
except  Cecilia.  Compare  with  it  the  following  sample  of 
her  later  style  : 

“ If  beneficence  be  judged  by  the  happiness  which  it  diffuses,  whose 
claim,  by  that  proof,  shall  stand  higher  than  that  of  Mrs.  Montagu,  from 
the  munificence  with  which  she  celebrated  her  annual  festival  for  those 
hapless  artificers  who  perform  the  most  abject  offices  of  any  authorized 
calling,  in  being  the  active  guardians  of  our  blazing  hearths  ? Not  to  vain 
glory,  then,  but  to  kindness  of  heart,  should  be  adjudged  the  publicity  o i 
that  superb  charity  which  made  its  jetty  objects,  for  one  bright  moMing 
tease  to  consider  themselves  as  degraded  outcasts  from  all  society." 


( 


1AADAMK  D'AKBLAY. 


777 


We  add  one  or  two  short  samples!  Sheridan  refused  to 
permit  his  lovely  wife  to  sing  in  public,  and  was  warmly 
praised  on  this  account  by  Johnson. 

“ The  last  of  men,”  says  Madame  D’Arblay,  “ was  Doo- 
tor  Johnson  to  have  abetted  squandering  the  delicacy  of 
integrity  by  nullifying  the  labors  of  talents.” 

The  Club,  Johnson’s  Club,  did  itself  no  honor  by  reject- 
ing on  political  grounds  two  distinguished  men,  or  3 a Tory, 
the  other  a Whig.  Madame  D’Arblay  tells  the  story  thus  . 
cc  A similar  ebullition  of  political  rancor  with  that  which 
so  difficultly  had  been  conquered  for  Mr.  Canning  foamed 
over  the  ballot-box  to  the  exclusion  of  Mr.  Rogers!” 

An  offence  punishable  with  imprisonment  is,  in  this  lan- 
guage, an  offence  “ which  produces  incarceration.”  To  be 
starved  to  death  “ is  to  sink  from  inanition  into  nonentity.” 
Sir  Isaac  Newton  is  “ the  developer  of  the  skies  in  their  em- 
bodied movements  ; ” and  Mrs.  Thrale,  when  a party  of 
clever  people  sat  silent,  is  said  to  have  been  “ provoked  by 
the  dulness  of  a taciturnity  that,  in  the  midst  of  such 
renowned  interlocutors,  produced  as  narcotic  and  torpor  as 
could  have  been  caused  by  a dearth  the  most  barren  of  all 
human  faculties.”  In  truth,  it  is  impossible  to  look  at  any 
page  of  Madame  D’Arblay’s  later  works  without  finding 
flowers  of  rhetoric  like  these.  Nothing  in  the  language  of 
those  jargonists  at  whom  Mr.  Gosport  laughed,  nothing  in 
the  language  of  Sir  Sedley  Clarendel,  approaches  this  new 
Euphuism. 

It  is  from  no  unfriendly  feeling  to  Madame  D’Arblay’s 
memory  that  we  have  exj^ressed  ourselves  so  strongly  on 
the  subject  of  her  style.  On  the  contrary,  we  conceive 
that  we  have  really  rendered  a service  to  her  reputation. 
That  her  later  works  were  complete  failures,  is  a fact  too 
notorious  to  be  dissembled : and  some  persons,  we  believe, 
have  consequently  taken  up  a notion  that  she  was  from  the 
first  an  overrated  writer,  and  that  she  had  not  the  powers 
which  were  necessary  to  maintain  her  on  the  eminence  on 
which  good  luck  and  fashion  had  placed  her.  We  believe, 
on  the  contrary,  that  her  early  popularity  was  no  more  than 
the  just  reward  of  distinguished  merit,  and  would  never 
have  undergone  an  eclipse,  if  she  had  only  been  content  to 
go  on  writing  in  her  mother  tongue.  If  she  failed  when  she 
quitted  her  own  province,  and  attempted  to  occupy  one  in 
which  she  had  neither  part  nor  lot,  this  reproach  is  common 
to  her  with  a crowd  of  distinguished  men.  Newton  failed 


778  MACAULAY^S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

when  he  turned  from  the  courses  of  the  stars,  and  the  ebb 
and  ’flow  of  the  ocean,  to  apocalyptic  seals  and  vials. 
Bentley  failed  when  he  turned  from  Homer  and  Aristoph- 
anes, to  edit  the  Paradise  Lost.  Inigo  failed  when  he  at- 
tempted to  rival  the  Gothic  churches  of  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury. Wilkie  failed  when  he  took  it  into  his  head  that  the 
Blind  Fiddler  and  the  Rent  Day  were  unworthy  of  his 
powers,  and  challenged  competition  with  Lawrence  as  a 
portrait  painter.  Such  failures  should  be  noted  for  the  in- 
struction of  posterity;  but  they  detract  little  from  the 
permanent  reputation  of  those  who  have  really  done  great 
things. 

Yet  one  word  more.  It  is  not  only  on  account  of  the 
intrinsic  merit  of  Madame  D’Arblay’s  early  works  that  she 
is  entitled  to  honorable  mention.  Her  appearance  is  an 
important  epoch  in  our  literary  history.  Evelina  was  the 
first  tale  written  by  a woman,  and  purporting  to  be  a pic- 
ture of  life  and  manners,  that  lived  or  deserved  to  live. 
The  Female  Quixote  is  no  exception.  That  work  has  un- 
doubtedly great  merit,  when  considered  as  a wild  satirical 
harlequinade  ; but,  if  we  consider  it  as  a picture  of  life  and 
manners,  we  must  pronounce  it  more  absurd  than  any  of 
the  romances  which  it  was  designed  to  ridicule. 

Indeed,  most  of  the  popular  novels  which  preceded 
Evelina  were  such  as  no  lady  would  have  written ; and 
many  of  them  were  such  as  no  lady  could  without  confusion 
own  that  she  had  read.  The  very  name  of  novel  was  hid 
in  horror  among  religious  people.  In  decent  families,  which 
did  not  profess  extraordinary  sanctity,  there  was  a strong 
feeling  against  all  such  works.  Sir  Anthony  Absolute,  two 
or  three  years  before  Evelina  appeared,  spoke  the  sense  of 
the  great  body  of  sober  fathers  and  husbands,  when  he  pro- 
nounced the  circulating  library  an  evergreen  tree  of  dia- 
bolical knowdedge.  This  feeling,  on  the  part  of  the  grave 
and  reflecting,  increased  the  evil  from  which  it  had  sprung. 
The  novelist  having  little  character  to  lose,  and  having  few 
readers  among  serious  people,  took  without  scruple  liberties 
which  in  our  generation  seem  almost  incredible. 

Miss  Burney  did  for  the  English  novel  what  Jeremy 
Collier  did  for  the  English  drama;  and  she  did  it  in  a better 
way.  She  first  showed  that  a tale  might  be  written  in 
which  the  fashionable  and  the  vulgar  life  of  London  might 
be  exhibited  with  great  force,  and  with  broad  comic  humor 
and  which  yet  should  not  contain  a single  line  inconsistent 


MajDAMIS  d’aiiblay. 


779 


with  rigid  morality,  or  even  with  virgin  delicacy.  She  took 
away  the  reproach  which  lay  on  a most  useful  and  delight- 
ful species  of  composition.  She  vindicated  the  right  of  her 
sex  to  an  equal  share  in  a fair  and  noble  province  of  letters. 
Several  accomplished  women  have  followed  in  her  track. 
At  present,  the  novels  which  we  owe  to  English  ladies  form 
no  small  part  of  the  literary  glory  of  our  country.  No.  class 
of  work  is  more  honorably  distinguished  by  fine  observation, 
by  grace,  by  delicate  wit,  by  pure  moral  feeling.  Several 
among  the  successors  of  Madame  D’Arblav  have  equalled 
her  ; two,  we  think,  have  surpassed  her.  But  the  fact  that 
she  has  been  surpassed  gives  her  an  additional  claim  to  our 
respect  and  gratitude ; for,  in  truth,  we  owe  to  her  not  only 
Evelina,  Cecilia,  and  Camilla,  but  also  Mansfield  Bark  and 
the  Absentee. 


780 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


THE  PRESENT  ADMINISTRATION* 

(. Edinburgh  Review , June,  1827.) 

We  ought  to  apologize  to  our  readers  for  prefixing  to 
this  article  the  name  of  such  a publication.  The  two  num- 
bers which  lie  on  our  table  contain  nothing  which  could  be 
endured,  even  at  a dinner  of  the  Pitt  Club,  unless,  as  the 
newspapers  express  it,  the  hilarity  had  been  continued  to  a 
very  late  hour.  We  have  met,  we  confess,  with  nobody 
who  has  ever  seen  them  ; and  should  our  account  excite  any 
curiosity  respecting  them,  we  fear  that  an  application  to  the 
booksellers  will  already  be  too  late.  Some  tidings  of  them 
may  perhaps  be  obtained  from  the  trunkmakers.  In  order 
to  console  our  readers,  however,  under  this  disappointment, 
we  will  venture  to  assure  them,  that  the  only  subject  on 
which  the  reasonings  of  these  Antijacobin  Reviewers  throw 
any  light,  is  one  in  which  we  take  very  little  interest — the 
state  of  their  own  understandings  ; and  that  the  only  feeling 
which  their  pathetic  appeals  have  excited  in  us,  is  that  of 
deep  regret  for  our  four  shillings,  which  are  gone  and  will 
return  no  more. 

It  is  not  a very  cleanly,  or  a very  agreeable  task,  to  rake 
up  from  the  kennels  of  oblivion  the  remains  of  drowned 
abortions  which  have  never  opened  their  eyes  on  the  day, 
or  even  been  heard  to  whimper,  but  have  been  at  once  trans- 
ferred from  the  filth  in  which  they  were  littered,  to  the  filth 
with  which  they  are  to  rot.  But  unhappily  we  have  no 
choice.  Bad  as  this  work  is,  it  is  quite  as  good  as  any 
which  has  appeared  against  the  present  administration.  We 
have  looked  everywhere,  without  being  able  to  find  any  an- 
tagonist who  can  possibly  be  as  much  ashamed  of  defeat  as 
we  shall  be  of  victory. 

The  manner  in  which  the  influence  of  the  press  has,  at 
this  crisis,  been  exercised,  is,  indeed,  very  remarkable.  All 
the  talent  has  been  on  one  side.  With  an  unanimity  which, 
as  Lord  Londonderry  wisely  supposes,  can  be  ascribed  only 
to  a dexterous  use  of  the  secret-service  money,  the  able  and 
respectable  journals  of  the  metropolis  have  all  supported  the 
new  government.  It  has  been  attacked,  on  the  other  hand, 
by  writers  who  make  every  cause  which  they  espouse  despic- 
able or  odious, — by  one  paper  which  owes  all  its  notoriety 
* The  New  Antijacobin  Review,— Nos,  I,  and  II,  8 vo,  I ondon,  1827, 


TUE  1'KESIO.NT  ADMINISTRATION. 


781 


to  its  reports  of  the  slang  uttered  by  drunken  lads  who  are 
brought  to  Bow  Street  for  breaking  windows — by  another 
which  barely  contrives  to  subsist  on  intelligence  from  butlers, 
and  advertisements  from  perfumers.  With  these  are  joined 
all  the  scribblers  who  rest  their  claim  to  orthodoxy  and  loy- 
alty on  the.  perfection  to  which  they  have  carried  the  arts 
of  ribaldry  and  slander.  What  part  these  gentlemen 
would  take  in  the  present  contest,  seemed  at  first  doubtful. 
We  feared,  for  a moment,  that  their  servility  might  over- 
power their  malignity,  and  that  they  would  be  even  more 
inclined  to  flatter  the  powerful  than  to  calumniate  the  inno- 
cent. It  turns  out  that  we  were  mistaken  ; and  we  are  most 
thankful  for  it.  They  have  been  kind  enough  to  spare  us 
the  discredit  of  their  alliance.  We  know  not  how  we  should 
have  borne  to  be  of  the  same  party  with  them.  It  is  bad 
enough,  God  knows,  to  be  of  the  same  species. 

The  writers  of  the  book  before  us,  who  are  also,  we  be- 
lieve, the  great  majority  of  its  readers,  can  scarcely  be  said 
to  belong  to  this  ciass.  They  rather  resemble  those  snakes 
with  which  Indian  jugglers  perform  so  many  curious  tricks  : 
the  bags  of  venom  are  left,  but  the  teeth  are  extracted. 
That  they  might  omit  nothing  tending  to  make  them  lidicu- 
ious,  they  have  adopted  a title  on  which  no  judicious  writer 
would  have  ventured ; and  challenged  comparison  with  one 
of  the  most  ingenious  and  amusing  volumes  in  our  language. 
Whether  they  have  assumed  this  name  on  the  principle 
which  influenced  Mr.  Shandy  in  christening  his  children,  or 
from  a whim  similar  to  that  which  induced  the  proprietors 
of  the  most  frightful  Hottentot  that  ever  lived,  to  give  her 
the  name  of  Venus,  we  shall  not  pretend  to  decide  ; but  we 
would  seriously  advise  them  to  consider,  whether  it  is  for 
their  interest,  that  people  should  be  reminded  of  the  cele- 
brated imitations  of  Darwin  and  Kotzebue,  while  they  are 
reading  such  parodies  on  the  Bible  as  the  following  : — “ In 
those  days,  a strange  person  shall  appear  in  the  land,  and  he 
shall  cry  to  the  people,  Behold,  I am  possessed  by  the  De- 
mon of  Ultra-Liberalism ; I have  received  the  gift  of  inco- 
herence ; I am  a political  philosopher,  and  a professor  of 
paradoxes.” 

We  Tvould  also,  with  great  respect,  ask  the  gentleman 
who  has  lampooned  Mr.  Canning  in  such  Drydenian  couplets 
as  this — 

“ When  he  said  if  they  would  but  let  him  in, 

He  would  never  try  to  turn  them  out  again,* * — 

whether  his  performance  gains  much  by  being  compared 


782 


macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 


with  New  Morality?  and,  indeed,  whether  such  satire  as 
this  is  likely  to  make  anybody  laugh  but  himself,  or  to  make 
anybody  wince  but  his  publisher? 

But  we  must  take  leave  of  the  New  Antijacobin  Review  ; 
and  we  do  so,  hoping  that  we  have  secured  the  gratitude  of 
its  conductors.  W e once  heard  a schoolboy  relate  with  evi- 
dent satisfaction  and  pride,  that  lie  had  been  horsewhipped 
by  a Duke  : we  trust  that  our  present  condescension  will  be 
as  highly  appreciated. 

But  it  is  not  for  the  purpose  of  making  a scarecrow  of  a 
ridiculous  publication,  that  we  address  our  readers  at  the 
present  important  crisis.  We  are  convinced,  that  the  cause 
of  the  present  Ministers  is  the  cause  of  liberty,  the  cause  of 
toleration,  the  cause  of  political  science, — the  cause  of  the 
people,  who  are  entitled  to  expect  from  their  wisdom  and 
liberality  many  judicious  reforms, — the  cause  of  the  aristoc- 
racy, who.,  unless  those  reforms  be  adopted,  must  inevitably 
be  the  victims  of  a violent  and  desolating  revolution.  We 
are  convinced,  that  the  government  of  the  country  wms  never 
intrusted  to  men  who  more  thoroughly  understood  its  in- 
terest, or  were  more  sincerely  disposed  to  promote  it — to 
men  who,  in  forming  their  arrangements,  thought  so  much 
of  what  they  could  c?o,  and  so  little  of  what  they  could  get . 
On  the  other  side,  we  see  a party  which,  for  ignorance,  in- 
temperance, and  inconsistency,  has  no  parallel  in  our  annals, 
— which,  as  an  Opposition,  we  really  think,  is  a scandal  to 
the  nation,  and,  as  a Ministry,  would  speedily  be  its  ruin. 
Under  these  circumstances,  we  think  it  our  duty  to  give  our 
best  support  to  those  with  whose  power  are  inseparably  bound 
up  all  the  dearest  interests  of  the  community, — the  freedom 
of  worship,  of  discussion,  and  of  trade, — our  honor  abroad, 
and  our  tranquillity  at  home. 

In  undertaking  the  defence  of  the  Ministers,  we  feel  our- 
selves embarrassed  by  one  difficulty  : we  are  unable  to  com- 
prehend distinctly  of  what  they  are  accused.  A statement 
of  facts  may  be  contradicted ; but  the  gentlemen  of  the 
Opposition  clo  not  deal  in  statements.  Reasonings  may  be 
refuted  ; but  the  gentleman  of  the  Opposition  do  not  reason. 
There  is  something  impassive  and  elastic  about  their  dul- 
ness,  on  which  all  the  weapons  of  controversy  are  thrown 
away.  It  makes  no  resistance,  and  receives  no  impression. 
To  argue  with  it,  is  like  stabbing  the  water,  or  cudgelling  a 
woolpack.  Bonaparte  is  said  to  have  remarked,  that  the 
English  soldiers  at  Waterloo  did  not  know  when  they  were 
beaten.  The  Duke  of  Wellinorton.  eonallv  fortunate  in 


JPfiE  PRESENT  ADMINISTRATION.  ?83 

politics  and  in  war,  lias  the  rare  felicity  of  being  supported 
a second  time  by  a force  of  this  description, — men  whoso 
desperate  hardihood  in  argument  sets  all  assailants  at  defi- 
ance,— who  fight  on,  though  borne  down  on  every  side  by 
overwhelming  proofs,  rush  enthusiastically  into  the  mouth 
of  an  absurdity,  or  stake  themselves  with  cool  intrepidity 
on  the  horn  of  a dilemma.  We  doubt  whether  this  uncon* 
querable  pertinacity  be  quite  as  honorable  in  debate  as  in 
battle  ; but  we  are  sure,  that  it  is  a very  difficult  task  for 
persons  trained  in  the  old  school  of  logical  tactics  to  con- 
tend with  antagonists  who  possess  such  a quality. 

The  species  of  argument  in  which  the  members  of  the 
Opposition  appear  chiefly  to  excel,  is  that  of  which  the  Mar- 
quis, in  the  Critique  de  V E cole  des  Femmes , showed  himself 
so  great  a master : — “ Tarte  a la  creme — morbleu,  tarte  a 
la  creme  ! ” “ He  bien,  quc  veux  tu  dire,  tarte  a la  creme?” 

“ Parbleu,  tarte  a la  creme,  chevalier  ! ” “ Mais  encore  ? ” 

“ Tarte  a la  creme  ! ” “ Di-nous  un  pen  tes  raisons.”  “ Tarte 
a la  creme  ! ” “ Mais  il  faut  expliquer  ta  pensee,  ce  me 

semble.”  “ Tarte  a la  creme,  Madame.”  “ Que  trouvez- 
vouz  la  a redire?”  “Moi,  rien  ; — tarte  a la  creme!” 
With  equal  taste  and  judgment,  the  writers  and  speakers  of 
the  Opposition  repeat  their  favorite  phrases, — “ deserted 
principles,”  “ unnatural  coalition,”  abase  love  of  office.” 
They  have  not,  wo  must  allow,  been  unfortunate  in  their 
choice  of  a topic.  The  English  are  but  too  much  accus- 
tomed to  consider  every  public  virtue  as  comprised  in  con- 
sistency; and  the  name  of  coalition  lias  to  many  ears  a 
startling  and  ominous  sound.  Of  all  the  charges  brought 
against  the  Ministry,  this  alone,  as  far  as  we  can  discover, 
has  any  meaning ; and  even  to  this  we  can  allow  no  force. 

To  condemn  coalitions  in  the  abstract,  is  manifestly  ab- 
surd : since  in  a popular  government,  no  good  can  be  done 
without  concert,  and  no  concert  can  be  obtained  without 
compromise.  Those  who  will  not  stoop  to  compliances 
which  the  condition  of  human  nature  renders  necessary,  are 
fitter  to  be  hermits  than  to  be  statesmen.  Their  virtue, 
like  gold  which  is  too  refined  to  be  coined,  must  be  alloyed 
before  it  can  be  of  any  use  in  the  commerce  of  society.  But 
most  peculiarly  inconsistent  and  unreasonable  is  the  conduct 
of  those  who,  while  they  profess  strong  Party-feelings,  yet 
entertain  a superstitious  aversion  to  Coalitions.  Every  argu- 
ment which  can  be  urged  against  coalitions,  as  such,  is  also 
an  argument  against  party  connections.  Every  argument  by 
which  party  connections  can  be  defended,  is  a defence  of 


784  m<ycaulay*s  miscellaneous  writings, 

coalitions.  Wliat  coalitions  are  to  parties,  parties  ate  to 
individuals.  The  members  of  a party,  in  order  to  promote 
some  great  common  object,  consent  to  waive  all  subordinate 
considerations  : — That  they  may  co-operate  with  more  effect 
where  they  agree,  they  contrive,  by  reciprocal  concessions, 
to  preserve  the  semblance  of  unanimity,  even  where  they 
differ.  Men  are  not  thought  unprincipled  for  acting  thus  ; 
because  it  is  evident  that  without  such  mutual  sacrifices 
of  individual  opinions,  no  government  can  be  formed,  nor 
any  important  measures  carried,  in  a world  of  which  the  in- 
habitants resemble  each  other  so  little  and  depend  on  each 
other  so  much, — in  which  there  are  as  many  varieties  of 
mind  as  of  countenance,  yet  in  which  great  effects  can  be 
produced  only  by  combined  exertions.  We  must  extend 
the  same  indulgence  to  a coalition  between  parties.  If  they 
agree  on  every  important  practical  question,  if  they  differ 
only  about  objects  which  are  either  insignificant  or  unat- 
tainable, no  party  man  can,  on  his  own  principles,  blame 
them  for  uniting.  These  doctrines,  like  all  other  doctrines, 
may  be  pushed  to  extremes  by  the  injudicious,  or  employed 
by  the  designing  as  a pretext  for  profligacy.  But  that  they 
are  not  in  themselves  unreasonable  or  pernicious,  the  whole 
history  of  our  country  proves. 

The  Revolution  itself  was  the  fruit  of  a coalition  between 
parties,  which  had  attacked  each  other  with  a fury  unknown 
in  later  times.  In  the  preceding  generation  their  hostility 
had  covered  England  with  blood  and  mourning.  They  had 
subsequently  exchanged  the  sword  for  the  axe  : but  their 
enmity  was  not  the  less  deadly  because  it  was  disguised  by 
the  forms  of  justice.  By  popular  clamor,  by  infamous  testi- 
mony, by  perverted  law,  they  had  shed  innocent  and  noble 
blood  like  water.  Yet  all  their  animosities  were  forgotten 
in  the  sense  of  their  common  danger.  Whigs  and  Tories 
signed  the  same  associations.  Bishops  and  field  preachers 
thundered  out  the  same  exhortations.  The  doctors  of  Ox- 
fort  and  the  goldsmiths  of  London  sent  in  their  plate  with 
equal  zeal.  The  administration  which,  in  the  reign  of  Queen 
Anne,  defended  Holland,  rescued  Germany,  conquered  Flan- 
ders, dismembered  the  monarchy  of  Spain,  shook  the  throne 
of  France,  vindicated  the  independence  of  Europe,  and 
established  the  empire  of  the  sea,  was  formed  by  a junction 
between  men  who  had  many  political  contests  and  many 
personal  injuries  to  forget.  Somers  had  been  a member  of 
the  ministry  which  had  sent  Marlborough  to  the  Tower. 
Marlborough  had  assisted  in  harassing  Somers  by  a vexa* 


THE  PRESENT  ABMINtSTilAtTOtt.  785 

tious  impeachment.  But  would  these  great  men  have  acted 
wisely  or  honorably  if,  on  such  grounds,  th«y  had  refused 
to  serve  their  country  in  concert  ? The  Cabinet  which  con- 
ducted the  seven  years’  war  with  such  distinguished  ability 
and  success,  was  composed  of  members  who  had  a short 
time  before  been  leaders  of  opposite  parties.  The  Union 
between  Fox  and  North  is,  we  owe,  condemned  by  that  ar- 
gument which  it  will  never  be  possible  to  answer  in  a man- 
ner satisfactory  to  the  great  body  of  mankind, — the  argu- 
ment from  the  event.  But  we  should  feel  some  surprise  at 
the  dislike  which  some  zealous  Pittites  affect  to  entertain  for 
coalitions,  did  we  not  know  that  a Pittite  means,  in  the 
phraseology  of  the  present  day,  a person  who  differs  from 
Mr.  Pitt  on  every  subject  of  importance.  There  are,  indeed, 
two  Pitts, — the  real  and  the  imaginary, — the  Pitt  of  history, 
a Parliamentary  reformer,  an  enemy  of  the  Test  and  Corpo- 
ration Acts,  an  advocate  of  Catholic  Emancipation  a*nd  of 
free  trade, — and  the  canonized  Pitt  of  the  legend, — as  unlike 
to  his  namesake  as  Virgil  the  magician  to  Virgil  the  poet, 
or  St.  James  the  slayer  of  Moors  to  St.  James  the  fisherman. 
What  may  have  been  the  opinion  of  that  unreal  being  whose 
birthday  is  celebrated  by  libations  of  Protestant  Ascendency, 
on  the  subject  of  coalitions,  we  leave  it  to  his  veracious  ha- 
giographers,  Lord  Eldon  and  Lord  Westmoreland,  to  deter- 
mine. The  sentiments  of  the  real  Mr.  Pitt  may  be  easily 
ascertained  from  his  conduct.  At  the  time  of  the  revolu- 
tionary war  he  admitted  to  participation  in  his  power  those 
who  had  formerly  been  his  most  determined  enemies.  In 
1804  he  connected  himself  with  Mr.  Fox,  and,  on  his  return 
to  office,  attempted  to  procure  a high  situation  in  the  gov- 
ernment for  his  new  ally.  One  more  instance  we  will  men 
tion,  which  has  little  weight  with  us,  but  which  ought  to 
have  much  weight  with  our  opponents.  They  talk  of  Mr. 
Pitt ; — but  the  real  object  of  their  adoration  is  unquestion- 
ably the  late  Mr.  Percival,  a gentleman  whose  acknowledged 
private  virtues  were  but  a poor  compensation  to  his  coun- 
try for  the  narrowness  and  feebleness  of  his  policy.  In  1809 
that  minister  offered  to  serve,  not  only  with  Lord  Grenville 
and  Earl  Grey,  but  even  under  them.  No  approximation  of 
feeling  between  the  members  of  the  government  and  their 
opponents  had  then  taken  place  : there  had  not  even  been 
the  slightest  remission  of  hostilities.  On  no  question  of  for- 
eign or  domestic  policy  were  the  two  parties  agreed.  Yet 
under  such  circumstances  was  this  proposition  made.  It 
was,  as  might  have  been  anticipated,  rejected  by  the  Whigs 
Von.  II.— 50 


786 


MACAULAY* S MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


and  derided  by  the  country.  But  the  recollection  of  it  ought 
certainly  to  prevent  those  who  concurred  in  it,  and  their  de- 
voted followers,  from  talking  of  the  baseness  and  selfishness 
of  coalitions. 

These  general  reasonings,  it  may  be  said,  are  superfluous. 
It  is  not  to  coalitions  in  the  abstract,  but  to  the  present  coali- 
tion in  particular,  that  objection  is  made.  We  answer,  that 
an  attack  on  the  present  coalition  can  only  be  maintained 
by  succeeding  in  the  most  signal  way  in  an  attack  on  coali- 
tions in  the  abstract.  For  never  has  the  world  seen,  and 
never  is  it  likely  to  see,  a junction  between  parties  agreeing 
on  so  many  points,  and  differing  on  so  few.  The  Whigs 
and  the  supporters  of  Mr.  Canning  were  united  in  principle. 
They  were  separated  only  by  names,  by  badges,  and  by 
recollections.  Opposition,  on  such  grounds  as  thesL,  would 
have  been  disgraceful  to  English  statesmen.  It  would  have 
been  as  unreasonable  and  as  profligate  as  the  disputes  of  the 
blue  and  green  factions  in  the  Hippodrome  of  Constantino- 
ple. One  man  admires  Mr.  Pitt,  and  another  Mr.  Fox. 
Are  they  therefore  never  to  act  together  ? Mr.  Pitt  and 
Mr.  Fox  were  themselves  willing  to  coalesce  while  they 
were  alive  ; and  it  would  therefore  be  strange,  if,  after  they 
have  been  lying  for  twenty  years  in  Westminster  Abbey, 
their  names  should  keep  parties  asunder.  One  man  approves 
of  the  revolutionary  war.  Another  thinks  it  unjust  and  im- 
politic. But  the  war  is  over.  It  is  now  merely  a matter  of 
historical  controversy.  And  the  statesman  who  should  re- 
quire his  colleagues  to  adopt  his  confession  of  faith  respect- 
ing it,  would  act  as  madly  as  Don  Quixote  when  he  went  to 
blows  with  Cardenio  about  the  chastity  of  Queen  Madasima. 
On  these  points,  and  on  many  such  points  as  these,  our  new 
Ministers,  no  doubt,  hold  different  opinions.  They  may  also, 
for  aught  we  know,  hold  different  opinions  about  the  title  of 
Perkin  Warbeck,  and  the  genuineness  of  the  Er^io^  Baadixf). 
But  we  shall  hardly,  on  such  grounds  as  these,  pronounco 
their  union  a sacrifice  of  principle  to  place. 

It  is,  in  short,  of  very  little  importance  whether  the  par- 
ties which  have  lately  united  entertain  the  same  sentiments 
respecting  things  which  have  been  done  and  cannot  be  un- 
done. It  is  of  as  little  importance  whether  they  have  adopted 
the  same  speculative  notions  on  questions  which  could  not 
at  present  be  brought  forward  with  the  slightest  chance  of 
success,  and  which,  in  all  probability,  they  will  never  be  re- 
quired to  discuss.  The  real  questions  are  these : Do  they 
differ  as  to  the  policy  which  present  circumstances  require? 


THE  PRESENT  ADMINISTRATION. 


787 


Or  is  any  great . cause,  which  they  may  have  heretofore 
espoused,  placed  in  a more  unfavorable  situation  by  their 
junction  ? 

That  this  is  the  case,  no  person  has  ever  attempted  to 
prove.  - Bold  assertions  have  indeed  been  made  by  a class 
of  writers,  who  seem  to  think  that  their  readers  are  as  com- 
pletely destitute  of  memory  as  they  themselves  are  of  shame. 
F or  the  last  two  years  they  have  been  abusing  Mr.  Canning 
for  adopting  the  principles  of  the  Whigs  ; and  they  now 
claim  that,  in  joining  Mr.  Canning,  the  Whigs  have  aban- 
doned all  their  principles  ! “ The  Whigs,’’  said  one  of  their 

writers,  but  a few  months  ago,  “ are  exercising  more  real 
power  by  means  of  the  present  Ministers  than  if  they  were 
themselves  in  office.”  “ The  Ministers,”  said  another,  “ are 
no  longer  Tories.  What  they  call  conciliation  is  mere  Whig- 
gism.”  A third  observed  that  the  jest  of  Mr.  Canning  about 
Dennis  and  his  thunder  had  lost  all  its  point,  and  that  it 
was  a lamentable  truth,  that  all  the  late  measures  of  the  gov- 
ernment seemed  to  have  been  dictated  by  the  Whigs.  Yet 
these  very  officers  have  now  the  effrontery  to  assert  that  the 
Whigs  could  not  possibly  support  Mr.  Canning  without  re- 
nouncing every  opinion  which  they  had  formerly  professed. 

We  confidently  affirm,  on  the  other  hand,  that  no  princi- 
ple whatever  has  been  sacrificed.  With  respect  to  our  for- 
eign relations  and  our  commercial  policy,  the  two  parties 
have  for  years  been  perfectly  agreed.  On  the  Catholic  ques- 
tion the  views  of  the  Whigs  are  the  same  with  those  of  a 
great  majority  of  their  new  colleagues.  It  is  true  that,  in  an 
illustrious  assembly,  which  was  formerly  suspected  of  great 
dulness  and  great  decorum,  and  which  has  of  late  effectually 
redeemed  itself  from  one  half  of  the  reproach,  the  conduct 
of  the  Whigs  towards  the  Catholics  has  been  represented  in 
a v ery  unfavorable  light.  The  arguments  employed  against 
them  belong,  we  suppose,  to  a kind  of  logic  which  the  priv- 
ileged orders  alone  are  qualified  to  use,  and  which,  with 
their  other  constitutional  distinctions,  we  earnestly  pray 
that  they  may  long  keep  to  themselves.  An  ingenious  member 
of  this  assembly  is  said  to  have  observed,  that  the  Protestant 
alarmists  were  bound  to  oppose  the  new  Ministers  as  friends 
to  the  Catholic  cause,  and  that  the  Catholics  ought  to  op- 
pose them  as  traitors  to  the  same  cause.  He  reminded  the 
former  of  the  infinite  danger  of  trusting  power  to  a Cabinet 
composed  principally  of  persons  favorable  to  emancipation  : 
and,  at  the  same  time,  pointed  the  indignation  of  the  latter 
against  the  perfidy  of  the  pretended  friends  wbo  had  not 


7S8  MACAULAY'S  MISCELLANEOUS  WEITINGS. 

stipulated  that  emancipation  should  be  made  a ministerial 
measure!  We  cannot  sufficiently  admire  the  exquisite  dex- 
terity of  an  assailant  who,  in  the  same  breath,  blames  the 
same  people  for  doing,  and  for  not  doing  the  same  thing. 
To  ordinary  plebeian  understandings  we  should  think  it 
undeniable  that  the  Catholic  question  must  be.  now — either 
in  the  same  situation  in  which  it  was  before  the  late  change ; 
or  it  must  have  lost ; or  it  must  have  gained.  If  it  have 
gained,  the  Whigs  are  justified;  if  it  have  lost,  the  enemies 
of  the  claims  ought  zealously  to  support  the  new  govern- 
ment ; if  it  be  exactly  where  it  was  before,  no  person  who 
acted  with  Lord  Liverpool  can,  on  this  ground,  consistently 
oppose  Mr.  Canning. 

In  this  view,  indeed,  the  cause  of  the  Whigs  is  the  cause 
of  the  ministers  who  have  seceded  from  the  Cabinet.  Both 
parties  have  put  in  the  same  plea ; and  both  must  be  ac- 
quitted or  condemned  together.  If  it  be  allowed  that  the  ele- 
vation of  Mr.  Canning  was  not  an  event  favorable  to  the 
Catholic  cause,  the  Whigs  will  certainly  stand  convicted  of 
inconsistency.  But  at  the  same  time,  the  only  argument  by 
which  the  ex-Ministers  have  attempted  to  vindicate  their 
secession,  must  fall  to  the  ground ; and  it  will  be  difficult  to 
consider  that  proceeding  in  any  other  light  than  as  a factious 
expedient  to  which  they  have  resorted,  in  order  to  embarrass 
a colleague  whom  they  envied.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
effect  of  the  late  change  were  such,  that  it  became  the  duty 
of  those  who  objected  to  Catholic  Emancipation,  to  de- 
cline all  connection  with  the  Ministry,  it  must  surely  have 
become,  at  the  same  time,  the  duty  of  the  friends  of  Emanci- 
pation to  support  the  Ministry.  Those  who  take  the  one 
ground,  when  their  object  is  to  vindicate  the  seceders,  and 
the  other,  when  their  object  is  to  blacken  the  Whigs,  who,* 
in  the  same  speech,  do  not  scruple  to  represent  the  Catholic 
cause  as  triumphant  and  as  hopeless,  may,  we  fear,  draw 
dcwn  some  ridicule  on  themselves,  but  will  hardly  convince 
th4  country.  But  why  did  not  the  Whigs  stipulate  that 
some  proposition  for  the  relief  of  the  Catholics  should  be 
immediately  brought  forward,  and  supported  by  the  whole 
influence  of  the  Administration?  We  answer,  simply  be- 
cause they  could  not  obtain  such  conditions,  and  because,  by 
insisting  upon  them,  they  would  have  irreparably  injured 
those  whom  they  meant  to  serve,  and  have  thrown  the  gov- 
ernment into  tne  hands  of  men  who  would  have  employed 
all  its  power  and  patronage  to  support  a system  which,  we 
do  not  scruple  to  say,  is  thQ  shame  of  England,  and  the  curse 


THE  PRESENT  ADMINISTRATION. 


789 


of  Ireland.  By  the  course  which  they  have  taken,  they 
have  insured  to  the  sister  kingdom  every  alleviation  which 
its  calamities  can  receive  from  the  lenient  administration  of 
an  oppressive  system.  Under  their  government,  it  will  at 
least  De  no  man  s interest  to  espouse  the  side  of  bigotry. 
Truth  will  have  a fair  chance  against  prejudice.  And  when- 
ever the  dislike  with  which  the  majority  of  the  English 
people  regard  the  Catholic  claims  shall  have  been  overcome 
by  discussion,  no  other  obstacle  will  remain  to  be  sur- 
mounted. 

The  friends  of  the  Catholics  have,  indeed,  too  long  kept  out 
of  sight  the  real  difficulty  which  impedes  the  progress  of  all 
measures  for  their  relief.  There  has  been  a nervous  reluc- 
tance— perhaps  a,  natural  unwillingness,  to  approach  this 
subject.  Yet  it  is  of  the  utmost  importance  that  it  should  at 
last  be  fully  understood.  The  difficulty,  we  believe,  is 
neither  with  the  King  nor  with  the  Cabinet, — neither  with 
the  Commons  nor  with  the  Lords.  It  is  with  the  People  of 
England ; and  not  with  the  corrupt,  not  with  the  servile,  not 
with  the  rude  and  uneducated,  not  with  the  dissolute  and 
turbulent,  but  with  the  great  body  of  the  middling  orders  ; 
— of  those  who  live  in  comfort,  and  have  received  some  in- 
struction. Of  the  higher  classes,  the  decided  majority  is, 
beyond  all  dispute,  with  the  Catholics.  The  lower  classes 
care  nothing  at  all  about  the  question.  It  is  among  those 
whose  influence  is  generally  exerted  for  the  most  salutary 
purposes, — among  those  from  whom  liberal  statesmen  have, 
in  general,  received  the  strongest  support,  — among  those 
who  feel  the  deepest  detestation  of  oppression  and  corruption, 
that  erroneous  opinions  on  this  subject  are  most  frequent. 
A faction  with  which  they  have  no  other  feeling  in  common, 
has,  on  this  question,  repeatedly  made  them  its  tools,  and 
has  diverted  their  attention  more  than  once  from  its  own 
folly  and  proflgacy,  by  raisingHhe  cry  of  No  Popery.  They 
have  espoused  their  opinions, c not  from  want  of  honesty,  not 
from  want  of  sense,  but  simply  from  want  of  information 
and  reflection.  They  think  as  the  most  enlightened  men  in 
England  thought  seventy  or  eighty  years  ago.  Pulteney 
and  Pelham  would  no  more  have  given  political  power  to 
Papists  than  to  ourang-outangs.  A proposition  for  mitiga- 
ting the  severity  of  the  penal  laws  would,  in  their  time,  have 
been  received  with  suspicion.  The  full  discussion  which  the 
subject  has  since  undergone,  has  produced  a great  change. 
Among  intelligent  men  in  that  rank  of  life  from  which  our 
ministers  and  the  members  of  our  legislature  are  selected* 


790  MAOAULAT  S MISCELLANEOUS  WHITINGS. 

the  feeling  in  favor  of  concession  is  strong  and  general.  But 
unfortunately,  sufficient  attention  has  not  been  paid  tc  a 
lower,  but  most  influential  and  respectable  class.  The  friends 
of  the  Catholic  claims,  content  with  numbering  in  their  ranks 
all  the  most  distinguished  statesmen  of  two  generations, 
proud  of  lists  of  minorities  and  majorities  adorned  by  every 
name  which  commands  the  respect  of  the  country,  have  not 
sufficiently  exerted  themselves  to  combat  popular  prejudices. 
Pamphlets  against  Emancipation  are  circulated,  and  no 
answers  appear.  Sermons  are  preached  against  it,  and  no 
pains  are  taken  to  obliterate  the  impression.  The  rector 
carries  a petition  round  to  every  shop-keeper  and  every 
farmer  in  his  parish,  talks  of  Smithfield  and  the  inquisition, 
Bishop  Bonner  and  Judge  Jeffries.  No  person  takes  the 
trouble  to  canvass  on  the  other  side.  At  an  election,  the 
candidate  who  is  favorable  to  the  Catholic  claims,  is  almost 
always  content  to  stand  on  the  defensive.  He  shrinks  from 
the  odium  of  a bold  avowal.  While  his  antagonist  asserts 
and  reviles,  he  palliates,  evades,  and  distinguishes.  He  is 
unwilling  to  give  a pledge  : he  has  not  made  up  his  mind : 
he  hopes  that  adequate  securities  for  the  Church  may  be 
obtained : he  will  wait  to  see  how  the  Catholic  States  of 
South  America  behave  themselves  ! And  thus,  as  fast  as  he 
can,  he  gets  away  from  the  obnoxious  subject,  to  retrench- 
ment, reform  or  negro  slavery.  If  such  a man  succeeds,  his 
vote  does  not  benefit  the  Catholics  half  so  much  as  his  shuf- 
fling injures  them.  How  can  the  people  understand  the 
question,  when  those  whose  business  it  is  to  enlighten  them, 
will  not  state  it  to  them  plainly  ? Is  it  strange  that  they 
should  dislike  a cause  of  which  almost  all  its  advocates  seem 
to  be  ashamed?  If,  at  the  late  election,  all  our  public  men 
who  are  favorable  to  Emancipation  had  dared  to  speak  out, 
had  introduced  the  subject  of  their  own  accord,  and  dis' 
cussed  it  day  after  day,  they  might  have  lost  a few  votes 
they  might  have  been  compelled  to  face  a few  dead  cats ; 
but  they  would  have  put  down  the  prejudice  effectually. 
Five  or  six  friends  of  the  claims  might  have  been  unseated, 
but  the  claims  would  have  been  carried. 

The  popular  aversion  to  them  is  an  honest  aversion  ; ac- 
cording to  the  measure  of  knowledge  which  the  people  pos- 
sess, it  is  a just  aversion.  It  has  been  reasoned  down  wrher- 
ever  the  experiment  has  been  fearlessly  tried.  It  may  be 
reasoned  down  everywhere.  The  war  should  be  carried  on 
in  every  quarter.  No  misrepresentation  should  be  suffered 

T>f)CCJ  T» n + /I  o C"  * 1 1 t 1^4  + nv  1 1 fl.U 


Mte  tetetesteNf  AmiixtsTteAtiott. 


m 

tiion,  or  Anti-Doyle,  about  the  Coronation  Oath,  or  divided 
allegiance,  makes  its  appearance  in  the  corner  of  a provincial 
newspaper,  it  will  not  do  merely  to  say,  “ What  stuff!” 
We  must  remember  that  such  statements  constantly  reiter 
ated,  and  seldom  answered,  will  assuredly  be  believed. 
Plain,  spirited,  moderate  treatises  on  the  subject,  should  find 
their  way  into  every  cottage  not  such  rancorous  nonsenso 
as  that  for  which  the  Catholics  formerly  contracted  with 
the  fiercest  and  basest  libeller  of  the  age,  the  apostate  poli- 
tician, the  fraudulent  debtor,  the  ungrateful  friend,  whom 
England  has  twice  spewed  out  to  America  ; whom  America, 
though  far  from  squeamish,  has  twice  vomited  back  to  Eng- 
land. They  will  not,  they  may  be  assured,  serve  their  cause 
by  pouring  fourth  unmeasured  abuse  on  men  whose  memory 
is  justly  dear  to  the  hearts  of  a great  people  ; — men  mighty 
even  in  their  weaknesses,  and  wise  even  in  their  fanati- 
cism ; — the  goodly  fellowship  of  our  reformers, — the  noble 
army  of  our  martyrs.  Their  scandal  about  Queen  Elizabeth, 
and  their  wood-cuts  of  the  devil  whispering  in  the  ear  of 
John  Fox,  will  produce  nothing  but  disgust.  They  must 
conduct  the  controversy  with  good  sense  and  good  temper, 
and  there  cannot  be  the  slightest  doubt  of  the  issue.  But  of 
this  they  may  be  fully  assured,  that,  vdiile  the  general  feel- 
ing of  the  Nation  remains  unchanged,  a Ministry  which 
should  stake  its  existence  on  the  success  of  their  claims 
would  ruin  itself,  without  benefiting  them. 

The  conduct  of  the  Catholics,  on  the  present  occasion, 
deserves  the  highest  praise.  They  have  shown  that  expe- 
rience has  at  last  taught  them  to  know  their  enemies  from 
their  friends.  Indeed  there  are  few  scenes  in  this  tragi- 
comic world  of  ours  more  amusing  than  that  which  the 
leaders  of  the  Opposition  are  now  performing.  The  very 
men  who  have  so  long  obstructed  Emancipation, — who  have 
stirred  up  the  public  feeling  in  England  against  Emancipa- 
tion,— who,  in  fine,  have  just  resigned  their  offices,  because 
a supporter  of  Emancipation  was  placed  at  the  head  of  the 
government, — are  now  creeping  over  the  disappointed  hopes 
of  the  poor  Papists,  and  execrating  the  perfidious  Whigs 
vffio  have  taken  office  without  stipulating  for  their  relief ! 
The  Catholics  are,  in  the  mean  time,  in  the  highest  spirits, 
congratulating  themselves  on  the  success  of  their  old 
friends,  and  laughing  at  the  condoling  visages  of  their  new 
champions. 

Something  not  very  dissimilar  is  taking  place  with  re- 


792 


MACAULAY* S MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


spect  to  Parlimentary  Reform.  The  reformers  are  delighted 
with  the  new  Ministry.  Their  opponents  are  trying  to  con- 
vince them  that  they  ought  to  be  dissatisfied  with  it.  The 
Whigs,  we  suppose,  ought  to  have  insisted  that  Reform 
should  be  made  a Ministerial  measure.  We  will  not  at 
present  inquire  whether  they  have,  as  a body,  ever  declared 
any  decided  opinion  on  the  subject.  A much  shorter  answei 
will  suffice.  Be  Reform  good  or  bad,  it  is  at  present  evi- 
dently unattainable.  ~No  man  can,  by  coming  into  office,  or 
by  going  out  of  office,  either  effect  it  or  prevent  it.  As  we 
are  arguing  with  people  who  are  more  influenced  by  one 
name  than  by  ten  reasons,  wo  will  remind  them  of  the  con- 
duct pursued  by  Mr.  Pitt  with  regard  to  this  question.  At 
the  very  time  when  he  publicly  pledged  himself  to  use  his 
whole  power  “as  a man  and  as  a minister , honestly  and 
boldly  ” to  carry  a proposition  of  Parliamentary  Reform,  he 
was  sitting  in  the  same  Cabinet  with  persons  decidedly  hos- 
tile to  every  measure  of  the  kind.  At  the  present  juncture, 
we  own  that  we  should  think  it  as  absurd  in  any  man  to  de- 
cline office  for  the  sake  of  this  object,  as  it  would  have  been 
in  Sir  Thomas  More  to  refuse  the  Great  Seal,  because  he 
could  not  introduce  all  the  institutions  of  Utopia  into  Eng- 
land. The  "world  would  be  in  a wretched  state  indeed,  if  no 
person  were  to  accept  of  power,  under  a form  of  government 
which  he  thinks  susceptible  of  improvement.  The  effect  of 
such  scrupulosity  would  be,  that  the  best  and  wisest  men 
would  always  be  out  of  place  ; that  all  authority  would  bo 
committed  to  those  who  might  be  too  stupid  or  too  selfish  to 
see  abuses  in  any  system  by  which  they  could  profit,  and 
who,  by  their  follies  and  vices  would  aggravate  all  the  evils 
springing  from  defective  institutions. 

But  were  we  to  admit  the  truth  of  every  charge  which 
personal  enemies  or  professional  slanderers  have  brought 
against  the  present  ministers  of  the  Crown,  were  we  to  ad- 
mit that  they  had  abandoned  their  principles,  that  they  had 
betrayed  the  Catholics  and  the  Reformers,  it  would  still  re- 
main to  be  considered,  whether  we  might  not  change  for  the 
worse.  We  trust  in  God  that  there  is  no  danger.  We  think 
that  this  country  never  will,  never  can,  be  subjected  to  tho 
ruLe  of  a party  so  weak,  so  violent,  so  ostentatiously  selfish, 
as  that  which  is  now  in  Opposition.  Has  the  Cabinet 
been  formed  by  a coalition?  How,  let  us  ask,  has  the  Op- 
position been  formed  ? Is  it  not  composed  of  men  who  have, 
all  their  lives,  been  thwarting  and  abusing  each  other,  Jaco* 


THE  PRESENT  ADMINISTRATION. 


793 


bins,  Whigs,  Tories,  friends  of  Catholic  Emancipation,  ene. 
mies  of  Catholic  Emancipation, — men  united  only  by  their 
common  love  of  high  rents,  by  their  common  envy  of  supe- 
rior abilities,  by  their  common  wish  to  depress  the  people 
and  to  dictate  to  the  throne  ? Did  Lord  Lansdowne  at  any 
time  differ  so  widely  from  Mr.  Canning  as  Lord  Redesdale 
from  Lord  Lauderdale — sometime  needle-maker,  and  candi* 
date  for  the  shrievalty  of  London?  Are  the  Ministers 
charg3d  with  deserting  their  opinions  ? and  can  we  find  no 
instances  of  miraculous  conversion  on  the  left  of  the  wool- 
sack? What  was  the  influence  which  transformed  the 
Friend  of  the  People  into  an  aristocrat,  “ resolved  to  stand 
or  fall  with  his  order  ? ” Whence  was  the  sudden  illumina- 
tion, which  at  once  disclosed  to  all  the  discarded  Ministers 
the  imperfections  of  the  Corn  Bill  ? Let  us  suppose  that 
the  Whigs  had,  as  a party,  brought  forward  some  great 
measure  before  the  late  changes,  that  they  had  carried  it 
through  the  Commons,  that  they  had  sent  it  up,  with  the 
fairest  prospect  of  success,  to  the  Lords,  and  that  they  had 
then,  in  order  to  gratify  Mr.  Canning,  consented,  in  the  face 
of  all  their  previous  declarations,  to  defeat  it,  what  a tempest 
of  execration  and  derision  would  have  burst  upon  them! 
Yet  the  conduct  of  the  ex-Ministers,  according  to  the  best 
lights  we  can  obtain  upon  it,  was  even  more  culpable  than 
this.  Not  content  with  doing  a bad  thing,  they  did  it  in  the 
worst  way.  The  bill  which  had  been  prepared  by  the  leader 
for  whom  they  professed  boundless  veneration,  which  had 
been  brought  in  under  their  own  sanction,  which,  as  they 
positively  declared,  had  received  their  fullest  consideration, 
which  one  of  themselves  had  undertaken  to  conduct  through 
the  House  of  Lords,  that  very  bill  they  contrived  to  defeat : 
— and,  in  the  act  of  defeating  it,  they  attempted  to  lay 
upon  the  colleagues  whom  they  had  deserted  the  burden,  of 
public  resentment  which  they  alone  had  incurred.  Wo 
would  speak  with  indulgence  of  men  who  had  done  their 
country  noble  service  before — and  of  many  of  whom,  indi- 
vidually, it  must  be  impossible  to  think  otherwise  than  with 
respect.  But  the  scene  lately  passed  in  that  great  assembly 
has  afflicted  and  disgusted  the  country  at  large  ; and  it  is  not 
the  least  of  its  evil  consequences,  that  it  has  lessened  in  the 
public  estimation,  not  only  a body  which  ought  always  to  be 
looked  up  to  with  respect,  but  many  individuals  of  whose 
motives  we  cannot  bring  ourselves  to  judge  unfavorably, 
and  from  whose  high  qualities  we  trust  the  country  may  yet 


794  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

receive  both  benefit  and  honor.  Mr.  Peel  fortunately  did 
not  expose  himself  quite  as  effectually  as  his  associates; 
though  we  regret  that  the  tone  he  adopted  was  so  undecided 
and  equivocal.  It  was  not  for  him  to  pronounce  any  judg- 
ment on  the  wisdom  of  their  conduct.  lie  was  fully  con- 
vinced of  the  purity  of  their  motives.  And  finally  it  was  the 
eighteenth  of  June ! — a day  on  which,  it  seems,  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  is  privileged  to  commit  all  sorts  of  mischief  with 
impunity  to  the  end  of  his  life.  The  Duke  of  Wellington, 
however,  though  the  part  which  he  took  was  unfortunately 
prominent,  seems  to  have  been  comparatively'innocent.  He 
might  not,  while  in  office,  have  paid  much  attention  to  the 
measure  in  its  original  form.  lie  might  not  have  under- 
stood the  real  nature  of  his  own  unlucky  amendment.  But 
what  were  the  motives  of  Earl  Bathurst?  Or  where  were 
they  when  he  undertook  the  care  of  the  bill  in  its  former 
shape  ? Nothing  had  been  changed  since,  excepting  his  own 
situation.  And  it  would  be  the  very  madness  of  charity  to 
believe,  that,  if  he  had  still  been  a colleague  of  Lord  Liver- 
pool, or  had  been  able  to  come  to  terms  with  Mr.  Canning, 
he  would  have  pursued  such  a line  of  conduct.  Culpably  as 
all  his  coadjutors  have  acted  in  this  transaction,  his  share  of 
it  is  most  indefensible. 

And  it  is  for  these  men, — for  men  who,  before  they  have 
been  two  months  out  of  office,  have  retracted  the  declara- 
tions which  they  made  on  a most  important  subject  just 
before  they  quitted  office,— that  we  are  to  discard  the  pres- 
ent ministers,  as  inconsistent  and  unprincipled!  And  these 
men  are  the  idols  of  those  who  entertain  so  virtuous  a loath- 
ing for  unnatural  coalitions,  and  base  compromises.  These 
men  think  themselves  entitled  to  boast  of  the  purity  of  their 
public  virtues,  and  to  repel,  with  indignant  amazement,  any 
imputation  of  interested  or  factious  motives. 

We  dwell  long  on  this  event;  because  it  is  one  which 
enables  the  country  to  estimate  correctly  the  practical  prin- 
ciples of  those  who,  if  the  present  ministers  should  fall,  will 
assuredly  take  their  places.  To  call  their  conduct  merely 
factious,  is  to  deal  with  it  far  too  mildly.  It  has  been  fac- 
tious at  the  expense  of  consistency,  and  of  all  concern  for  the 
wishes  and  interests  of  the  people.  Was  there  no  other 
mode  of  embarrassing  the  government  ? Could  no  other  op- 
portunity be  found  or  made  for  a division?  Was  there  no 
other  pledge  which  could  be  violated,  if  not  with  loss 
awkwardness  to  themselves3  at  least  with  less  injury  to  tbtf 


tftlS  PRESENT  ADMINISTRATION. 


795 


State  ? Was  it  necessary  that  tliey  should  make  a handle  of 
a question  on  which  the  passions  of  the  people  were  roused 
to  the  highest  point,  and  on  which  its  daily  bread  might  de- 
pend, that  they  should  condemn  the  country  to  another  year 
of  agitation,  and  expose  it  to  dangers,  which,  only  a few 
months  before,  they  had  themselves  thought  it  necessary  to 
avert,  by  advising  an  extraordinary  exercise  of  the  preroga- 
tive ? There  is  one  explanation,  and  only  one.  They  were 
out,  and  they  longed  to  be  in.  Decency,  consistency,  the 
prosperity  and  peace  of  the  country,  were  as  dust  in  the 
balance.  They  knew  this  question  had  divided  men  who 
were  generally  united,  and  united  others  who  were  usually 
opposed ; and  though  they  themselves  had  already  taken 
their  part  with  their  colleagues  in  office  and  the  more  intel- 
ligent part  of  their  habitual  opponents,  they  did  not  scruple 
for  the  sake  of  embarrassing  those  they  had  deserted,  to 
purchase  the  appearance  of  a numerous  following,  by  oppos- 
ing a measure  which  they  had  themselves  concocted,  and 
pledged  themselves  to  support.  From  the  expedients  to 
which  they  have  resorted  in  Opposition,  we  may  judge  of 
what  we  have  to  expect  if  they  should  ever  return  to  office. 

They  will  return,  too,  it  must  be  remembered,  not  as  be- 
fore, the  colleagues  of  men  by  whose  superior  talents  they 
were  overawed,  and  to  whose  beneficial  measures  they  were 
often  compelled  to  yield  a reluctant  consent.  The  late 
change  has  separated  the  greater  part  of  them  from  all  such 
associates  forever : it  has  divided  the  light  from  the  dark- 
ness : it  has  set  all  the  wisdom,  all  the  liberality,  all  the 
public  spirit  on  one  side ; the  imbecility,  the  bigotry,  and 
the  rashness  on  the  other.  If  they  rule  again,  they  will  rule 
alone. 

They  will  return  to  situations  which  they  will  owe 
neither  to  their  talents  nor  to  their  virtues,  neither  to  the 
choice  of  their  King  nor  to  the  love  of  their  country ; but 
solely  to  the  support  of  an  Oligarchical  Faction,  richly  en- 
dowed with  every  quality  which  ensures  to  its  possessors  the 
hatred  of  a nation, — a faction  arbitrary,  bigoted,  and  inso- 
lent,— a faction  which  makes  parade  of  its  contempt  for  the 
dearest  interests  of  mankind,  wdiich  loves  to  make  the  people 
feel  of  how  little  weight,  in  its  deliberations,  is  the  con- 
sideration of  their  happiness. 

On  this  party,  and  on  this  alone,  must  such  ministers,  re- 
turning from  such  a secession,  rely  to  uphold  them  against 
the  public  opinion,  against  the  wishes  of  a King  who  has 


790  macaulat’s  miscellaneous  wettings. 

wisely  and  nobly  performed  his  duty  to  the  State,  against 
the  most  beloved  and  respected  portion  of  the  aristocracy 
against  a formidable  union  of  all  the  great  statesmen  anc? 
orators  of  the  age.  It  was  believed  by  those  of  whose  wis- 
dom Lord  Eldon  and  the  Duke  of  Newcastle  think  with 
reverence,  that,  in  the  bond  between  a sorcerer  and  his 
familiar  demon,  there  was  a stipulation  that  the  gifts  be- 
stowed by  the  Powers  of  Evil  should  never  be  employed 
but  for  purposes  of  evil.  Omnipotent  for  mischief,  these 
obligors  of  the  fiend  were  powerless  for  good.  Such  will  be 
the  compact  between  the  ex-Ministers,  if  ever  they  should 
return  to  power,  and  the  only  party  which  can  then  sup- 
port them.  That  they  may  be  masters,  they  must  be  slaves. 
They  will  be  able  to  stand  only  by  abject  submission  and  by 
boundless  profusion — by  giving  up  the  People  to  be  op- 
pressed, first  for  the  profit  of  the  Great,  and  then  for  their 
amusement, — by  corn-laws,  and  game-laws,  and  pensions  for 
Lord  Robert,  and  places  for  Lord  John. 

They  will  return  pledged  to  oppose  every  reform,  to 
maintain  a constant  struggle  against  the  spirit  of  the  age,  to 
defend  abuses  to  which  the  nation  is  every  day  becoming 
more  quick-sighted.  Even  Mr.  Peel,  if,  unluckily,  he  should 
at  last  identify  himself  with  their  faction,  must  restrain  his 
propensity  to  innovation.  Mutterings  have  already  been 
heard  in  high  places  against  his  tendencies  to  liberality  ; 
and  all  his  schemes  for  the  reformation  of  our  code  or  our 
courts  must  be  abandoned. 

Then  will  come  all  those  desperate  and  cruel  expedients 
of  which  none  but  bad  governments  stand  in  need.  The 
press  is  troublesome.  There  must  be  fresh  laws  against  the 
press.  Secret  societies  are  formed.  The  Habeas  Corpus 
act  must  be  suspended.  The  people  are  distressed  and 
tumultuous.  They  must  be  kept  down  by  force.  The 
army  must  be  increased ; and  the  taxes  must  be  increased. 
Then  the  distress  and  tumult  are  increased : and  then  the 
army  must  be  increased  again  ! The  country  will  be  gov- 
erned as  a child  is  governed  by  an  ill-tempered  nurse, — first 
beaten  till  it  cries,  and  then  beaten  because  it  cries ! 

Our  firm  conviction  is,  that  if  the  seeeders  return  to  office, 
they  will  act  thus ; and  that  they  will  not  have  the  power  even 
if  they  should  have  the  inclination,  to  act  otherwise.  And 
what  must  the  end  of  these  things  be  ? We.  answer,  without 
hesitation,  that,  if  this  course  be  persisted  in,  if  these  coun- 
sels and  these  counsellors  are  maintained,  the  end  must  be, 


THE  PRESENT  ADMINISTRATION.  79? 

a revolution,  a bloody  and  unsparing  revolution — a revolu- 
tion which  will  make  the  ears  of  those  who  hear  of  it  tingle 
in  the  remotest  countries*  and  in  the  remotest  times.  The 
middling  orders  in  England  are,  we  well  know,  attached  to 
the  institutions  of  their  country,  but  not  with  a blindly  par- 
tial attachment.  They  see  the  merits  of  the  system ; but 
they  also  see  its  fauks  ; and  they  have  a strong  and  grow  ing 
desire  that  these  faults  should  be  removed.  If,  while  their 
wish  for  improvement  is  becoming  stronger  and  stronger,  the 
government  is  to  become  worse  and  worse,  the  consequences 
are  obvious.  Even  now,  it  is  impossible  to  disguise,  that 
there  is  arising  in  the  bosom  of  that  class  a Republican  sect, 
as  audacious,  as  paradoxical,  as  little  inclined  to  respect  an- 
tiquity, as  enthusiastically  attached  to  its  ends,  as  unscrupu- 
lous in  the  choice  of  its  means,  as  the  French  Jacobins  them- 
selves,—but  far  superior  to  the  French  Jacobins  in  acuteness 
and  information — in  caution,  in  patience,  and  in  resolution. 
They  are  men  whose  minds  have  been  put  into  training  for 
violent  exertion.  All  that  is  merely  ornamental — all  that 
gives  the  roundness,  the  smoothness,  and  the  bloom,  has 
been  exuded.  Nothing  is  left  but  nerve,  and  muscle,  and 
bone.  Their  love  of  liberty  is  no  boyish  fancy.  It  is  not 
nourished  by  rhetoric,  and  it  does  not  evaporate  in  rhetoric. 
They  care  nothing  for  Leonidas,  and  Epaminondas,  and 
Brutus,  and  Codes.  They  profess  to  derive  their  opinions 
from  demonstration  alone ; and  are  never  so  little  satisfied 
with  them  as  when  they  see  them  exhibited  in  a roman- 
tic form.  Metaphysical  and  political  science  engage  their 
whole  attention.  Philosophical  pride  has  done  for  them 
what  spiritual  pride  did  for  the  Puritans  in  a former  age  ; 
it  has  generated  in  them  an  aversion  for  the  fine  arts,  for 
elegant  literature,  and  for  the  sentiments  of  chivalry.  It  has 
made  them  arrogant,  intolerant,  and  impatient  of  all  superi- 
ority. These  qualities  will,  in  spite  of  their  real  claims  to 
respect,  render  them  unpopular,  as  long  as  the  people  are 
satisfied  with  their  rulers.  But  under  an  ignorant  and  ty- 
rannical ministry,  obstinately  opposed  to  the  most  moderate 
and  judicious  innovations,  their  principles  would  spread  as 
rapidly  as  those  of  the  Puritans  formerly  spread,  in  spite  of 
their  offensive  peculiarities.  The  public,  disgusted  with  the 
blind  adherence  of  its  rulers  to  ancient  abuses,  would  bo 
reconciled  to  the  most  startling  novelties.  A strong  demo- 
cratic party  would  be  formed  in  the  educated  class.  In  the 
lowest,  and  the  most  numerous  order  of  the  population,  those 


798  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

who  have  any  opinions  at  all  are  democrats  already.  In  our 
manufacturing  towns,  the  feeling  is  even  now  formidably 
strong ; and  it  is  not  strange  that  it  should  be  so  : for  it  is 
on  persons  in  this  station  that  the  abuses  of  our  system 
press  most  heavily ; while  its  advantages,  on  the  other  hand, 
are  comparatively  little  felt  by  them.  An  abundant  supply 
of  the  necessaries  of  life  is,  with  them,  almost  the  only  con- 
sideration. The  difference  between  an  arbitrary  and  a lim- 
ited monarchy  vanishes,  when  compared  with  the  difference 
between  one  meal  a-day  and  three  meals  a-day.  It  is  poor 
consolation  to  a man  who  has  had  no  breakfast,  and  expects 
no  supper,  that  the  King  does  not  possess  a dispensing  power, 
and  that  troops  cannot  be  raised  in  time  of  peace  without 
the  consent  of  Parliament.  With  this  class,  our  government, 
free  as  it  is,  is  even  now  as  unpopular  as  if  it  were  despotic, — 
nay,  much  more  so.  In  despotic  states,  the  multitude  is  un- 
accustomed to  general  speculations  on  jiolitics.  Even  when 
men  suffer  most  severely,  they  look  no  further  than  the 
proximate  cause.  They  demand  the  abolition  of  a particular 
duty,  or  tear  an  obnoxious  individual  to  pieces.  But  they 
never  think  of  attacking  the  whole  system.  If  Constanti- 
nople were  in  the  state  in  which  Manchester  and  Leeds  have 
lately  been,  there  would  be  a cry  against  the  Grand  Vizier 
or  the  bakers.  The  head  of  the  Vizier  would  be  thrown  to 
the  mob,  over  the  wall  of  the  Seraglio — a score  of  bakers 
would  be  smothered  in  their  own  ovens;  and  everything 
would  go  on  as  before.  Not  a single  rioter  wrould  think  of 
curtailing  the  prerogatives  of  the  Sultan,  or  of  demanding  a 
representative  divan.  But  people  familiar  with  political 
inquiries  carry  their  scrutiny  further;  and,  justly  or  un- 
justly, attribute  the  grievances  under  which  they  labor,  to 
defects  in  the  original  constitution  of  the  government.  Thus 
it  is  with  a large  portion  of  our  spinners,  our  grinders,  and 
our  weavers.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say,  that  in  a season  of 
distress,  they  are  ripe  for  any  revolution.  This,  indeed  is 
acknowledged  by  all  the  Tory  writers  of  our  time.  But  all 
this,  they  tell  us,  comes  of  education — it  is  all  the  fault  of 
the  Liberals.  We  wTill  not  take  up  the  time  of  our  readers 
with  answering  such  observations.  We  will  only  remind 
our  gentry  and  clergy,  that  the  question  at  present  is  not 
about  the  cause  of  the  evil,  but  about  its  cure  / and  that,  un- 
Jess  due  precaution  be  used,  let  the  fault  be  whose  it  may, 
the  punishment  will  inevitably  be  their  own. 

The  history  of  our  country,  since  the  peace  of  1815,  is 


THE  PRESENT  ADMINISTRATION. 


790 


almost  entirely  made  up  of  the  struggles  of  tlie  lower  orders 
against  the  government,  and  of  the  efforts  of  the  go\  ernment 
to  keep  them  down.  In  1810,  immense  assemblies  were  con- 
vened, secret  societies  were  formed,  and  gross  outrages  were 
committed.  In  1817,  the  Habeas  Corpus  Act  was  twice 
suspended.  In  1819,  the  disturbances  broke  out  afresh. 
Meetings  were  held,  so  formidable,  from  their  numbers  and 
their  spirit,  that  the  Ministry,  and  the  Parliament,  approved 
of  the  conduct  of  magistrates  who  had  dispersed  one  of 
them  by  the  sword.  Fresh  laws  were  passed  against  sedi- 
tious writings  and  practices.  Yet  the  following  year  com- 
menced with  a desperate  and  extended  conspiracy  for  the 
assassination  of  the  cabinet,  and  the  subversion  of  the  gov- 
ernment. A few  months  after  this  event,  the  Queen  landed. 
On  that  occasion,  the  majority  of  the  middling  orders  joined 
with  the  mob.  The  effect  of  the  union  was  irresistible. 
The  Ministers  and  the  Parliament  stood  aghast ; the  bill  of 
pains  and  penalties  was  dropped  ; and  a convulsion,  which 
seemed  inevitable,  was  averted.  But  the  events  of  that  year 
ought  to  impress  one  lesson  on  the  mind  of  every  public 
man, — that  an  alliance  between  the  disaffected  multitude 
and  a large  portion  of  the  middling  orders,  is  one  with  which 
no  government  can  venture  to  cope,  without  imminent  dan- 
ger to  the  constitution. 

A government  like  that  with  which  England  would  be 
cursed,  if  the  present  Ministry  should  fall  before  the  present 
Opposition,  would  render  such  an  alliance  not  only  inevita- 
ble, but  permanent.  In  less  than  ten  years,  it  wuuld  goad 
every  Reformer  in  the  country  into  a Revolutionist.  It 
would  place  at  the  head  of  the  multitude,  persons  possessing 
all  the  education,  all  the  judgment,  and  all  the  habits  of  co- 
operation, in  which  the  multitude  itself  is  deficient.  That 
great  body  is  physically  the  most  powerful  in  the  state. 
Like  the  Hebrew  champion,  it  is  yet  held  in  captivity  by  its 
blindness.  But  if  once  the  eyeless  Giant  shall  find  a guide 
to  put  his  hand  on  the  props  of  the  State — if  once  he  shall 
bow  himself  upon  che  pillars,  woe  to  all  those  who  have 
made  him  their  laughing-stock,  or  chained  him  to  grind  at 
their  mill ! 

W e dor  therefore,  firmly  believe,  that,  even  if  no  external 
cause  were  to  precipitate  a fatal  crisis,  this  country  could  not 
be  governed  for  a single  generation  by  such  men  as  Lord 
Westmoreland  and  Lord  Eldon,  without  extreme  risk  oi 
revolution.  Rut  there  are  other  symptoms  in  the  body  polp 


800 


MACAULAY  S MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 


tic,  not  less  alarming  than  those  which  we  have  described. 
In  Ireland,  there  are  several  millions  of  Catholics,  who  do 
not  lo ve  our  government;  and  who  detest,  with  all  their 
heart,  with  all  their  soul,  with  all  their  mind,  and  with  all 
their  strength,  the  party  now  in  Opposition.  The  accession 
of  that  party  to  power,  would  be  a death-blow  to  their  hopes 
of  obtaining  their  demands  by  constitutional  means : and  we 
may  fairly  expect,  that  all  the  events  which  followed  the  re- 
call of  Lord  Fitz william,  will  take  place  again,  on  a greater 
and  more  formidable  scale.  One  thing,  indeed,  we  have  no 
right  to  expect,  that  a second  Iloche  will  be  as  unfortunate 
as  the  former.  A civil  war  in  Ireland  will  lead  almost  ne- 
cessarily to  a war  with  France.  Maritime  hostilities  with 
France,  and  the  clash  of  neutral  and  belligerent  pretensions, 
will  then  produce  war  with  America.  Then  come  expedi- 
tions to  Canada  and  expeditions  to  Java.  The  Cape  of 
Good  Hope  must  be  garrisoned.  Lisbon  must  be  defended. 
Let  us  suppose  the  best.  That  best  must  be,  a long  conflict, 
a dear-bought  victory,  a great  addition  to  a debt  already  most 
burdensome,  fresh  taxes,  and  fresh  discontents.  All  these 
are  events  which  may  not  improbably  happen  under  any  gov- 
ernment— events  which  the  next  month  may  bring  forth — 
events,  against  which  no  minister,  however  able  and  honest, 
can  with  perfect  certainty  provide, — but  which  Ministers, 
whose  policy  should  exasperate  the  people  of  Ireland,  would 
almost  unavoidably  bring  upon  us.  A Cabinet  formed  by 
the  Ex-Ministers  could  scarcely  exist  for  a year,  without  in- 
censing the  lower  classes  of  the  English  to  frenzy,  by  giving 
them  up  to  the  selfish  tyranny  of  its  aristocratical  supporters, 
without  driving  Ireland  into  rebellion,  and  without  tempting 
France  to  war. 

There  is  one  hope,  and  one  hope  only  for  our  country : 
and  that  hope  is  in  a liberal  Administration, — in  an  Ad- 
ministration which  will  follow  with  cautious,  but  with  con- 
stantly advancing  steps,  the  progress  of  the  public  mind ; 
which,  by  promptitude  to  redress  practical  grievances,  will 
enable  itself  to  oppose  with  authority  and  effect,  the  proposi- 
tions of  turbulent  theorists ; which  by  kindness  and  fairness 
in  all  its  dealings  with  the  People,  will  entitle  itself  to  their 
confidence  and  esteem. 

The  state  of  England,  at  the  present  moment,  bears  a close 
resemblance  to  that  of  France  at  the  time  when  Turgot  was 
called  to  the  head  of  affairs.  Abuses  were  numerous ; pub- 
lic burdens  heavy ; a spirit  of  innovation  was  abroad  among 


THE  PRESENT  ADMINISTRATION. 


801 


the  people.  The  Philosophical  Minister  attempted  to  secure 
the  ancient  institutions,  by  amending  them.  The  mild  re- 
forms which  he  projected,  had  they  been  carried  into  execu- 
tion, would  have  conciliated  the  people,  and  saved  from  the 
most  tremendous  of  all  commotions  the  Church,  the  Aristoc- 
racy, and  the  Throne.  But  a crowd  of  narrow-minded  no- 
bles, ignorant  of  their  own  interest,  though  solicitous  for 
nothing  else,  the  Newcastles  and  the  Salisburys  of  France, 
began  to  tremble  for  their  oppressive,  franchises.  Their 
clamors  overpowered  the  mild  good  sense  of  a King  who 
wanted  only  firmness  to  be  the  best  of  Sovereigns.  The 
Minister  was  discarded  for  councillors  more  obsequious  to 
the  privileged  orders ; and  the  aristocracy  and  clergy  ex- 
ulted in  their  success. 

Then  came  a new  period  of  profusion  and  misrule.  And 
then,  swiftly,  like  an  armed  man,  came  poverty  and  dismay. 
The  acclamation  of  the  nobles,  and  the  Te  Deums  of  the 
church,  grew  fainter  and  fainter.  Tne  very  courtiers  mut- 
tered disapprobation.  The  Ministers  stammered  out  feeble 
and  inconsistent  counsels.  But  all  other  voices  were  soon 
drowned  in  one,  which  every  moment  waxed  louder  and 
more  terrible, — in  the  fierce  and  tumultuous  roar  of  a great 
people,  conscious  of  irresistible  strength,  maddened  by  intol- 
erable wrongs,  and  sick  of  deferred  hopes ! That  cry,  so 
long  stifled,  now  rose  from  every  corner  of  France,  made  it- 
self heard  in  the  presence-chamber  of  her  King,  in  the  sa- 
loons of  her  nobles,  and  in  the  refectories  of  her  luxurious 
priesthood.  Then,  at  length,  concessions  were  made  which 
the  subjects  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth  would  have  thought  it 
impious  even  to  desire, — which  the  most  factious  opponent 
of  Louis  the  Fifteenth  had  never  ventured  to  ask, — which, 
but  a few  years  before,  would  have  been  received  with  ecsta- 
sies of  gratitude.  But  it  was  too  late ! 

The  imprisoned  Genie  of  the  Arabian  Tales,  during  tho 
early  period  of  his  confinement,  promised  wealth,  empire, 
and  supernatural  powers  to  the  man  who  should  extricate 
him.  But  when  he  had  waited  long  in  vain,  mad  with  rage 
at  the  continuance  of  his  captivity,  he  vowed  to  destroy  his 
deliverer  without  mercy!  Such  is  the  gratitude  of  nations 
exasperated  by  misgovernment  to  rulers  who  are  slow  to 
concede.  The  first  use  which  they  make  of  freedom  is 
to  avenge  themselves  on  those  who  have  been  so  slow  to 
grant  it. 

Never  was  this  disposition  more  remarkably  displayed 
Vox.  IT — 51 


802  macattlay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

than  at  the  period  of  which  we  speak.  Abuses  were  swept 
away  with  unsparing  severity.  The  royal  prerogatives,  th^ 
feudal  privileges,  the  provincial  distinctions,  were  sacrificed 
to  the  passions  of  the  people.  Everything  was  given ; and 
everything  was  given  in  vain.  Distrust  and  hatred  were 
not  to  be  thus  eradicated  from  the  minds  of  men  who  thought 
that  they  were  not  receiving  favors  but  extorting  rights; 
and  that,  if  they  deserved  blame,  it  was  not  for  their  insensi- 
bility to  tardy  benefits,  but  for  their  forgetfulness  of  past 
oppression. 

What  followed  was  the  necessary  consequence  of  such  a 
state  of  feeling.  The  recollection  of  old  grievances  made  the 
people  suspicious  and  cruel.  The  fear  of  popular  outrages 
produced  emigrations,  intrigues  with  foreign  courts;  and, 
finally,  a general  war.  Then  came  the  barbarity  of  fear ; the 
triple  despotism  of  the  clubs,  the  committees  and  the  com- 
mune ; the  organized  anarchy,  the  fanatical  atheism,  the 
scheming  and  far-sighted  madness,  the  butcheries  of  the 
Chatelet,  and  the  accursed  marriages  of  the  Loire.  The 
whole  property  of  the  nation  changed  hands.  Its  best  and 
wisest  citizens  were  banished  or  murdered.  Dungeons  were 
emptied  by  assassins  as  fast  as  they  were  filled  by  spies. 
Provinces  were  made  desolate.  Towns  were  unpeopled. 
Old  things  passed  away.  All  things  became  new. 

The  paroxysm  terminated.  A singular  train  of  events  re- 
stored the  house  of  Bourbon  to  the  F rench  throne.  The  exiles 
have  returned.  But  they  have  returned  as  the  few  survivors 
of  the  deluge  returned  to  a world  in  which  they  could 
recognize  nothing ; in  which  the  valleys  had  been  raised,  and 
the  mountains  depressed,  and  the  courses  of  the  rivers 
changed, — in  which  sand  and  sea-weed  had  covered  the  cul 
tivated  fields  and  the  walls  of  imperial  cities.  They  have 
returned  to  seek  in  vain,  amidst  the  mouldering  relics  of  a 
former  system,  and  the  fermenting  elements  of  a new  crea- 
tion, the  traces  of  any  remembered  object.  The  old  boun- 
daries are  obliterated.  The  old  laws  are  forgotten.  The 
old  titles  have  become  laughing-stocks.  The  gravity  of  the 
parliaments,  and  the  pomp  of  the  hierarchy ; the  Doctors 
whose  disputes  agitated  the  Sorbonne,  and  the  embroidered 
multitude  whose  footsteps  wore  out  the  marble  pavements 
of  Versailles, — all  have  disappeared.  The  proud  and  volup- 
tuous prelates  wTho  feasted  on  silver,  and  dozed  amidst  cur- 
tains of  massy  velvet,  have  been  replaced  by  curates  who 
undergo  every  drudgery  and  every  humiliation  for  the  wagcsi 


THE  PRESENT  ADMINISTRATION. 


803 


of  lackeys.  To  those  gay  and  elegant  nobles  who  studied 
military  science  as  a fashionable  accomplishment,  and  ex- 
pected military  rank  as  a part  of  their  birthright,  have  suc- 
ceeded men  born  in  lofts  and  cellars  ; educated  in  the  half- 
naked  ranks  of  the  revolutionary  armies,  and  raised  by  fero- 
cious valor  and  self-taught  skill,  to  dignities  with  which  the 
coarseness  of  their  manners  and  language  forms  a grotesque 
contrast.  The  government  may  amuse  itself  by  playing  at 
despotism,  by  reviving  the  names  and  aping  the  style  of  the 
old  court — as  Helenus  in  Epirus  consoled  himself  for  the 
lost  magnificence  of  Troy,  by  calling  his  book  Xanthus,  and 
the  entrance  of  his  little  capital  the  Scaean  gate.  But  the 
law  of  entail  is  gone,  and  cannot  be  restored.  The  liberty 
of  the  press  is  established,  and  the  feeble  struggles  of  the 
Minister  cannot  permanently  put  it  down.  The  Bastile  is 
fallen,  and  can  never  more  rise  from  its  ruins.  A few  words, 
a few  ceremonies,  a few  rhetorical  topics,  make  up  all  that 
remains  of  that  system  which  was  founded  so  deeply  by  the 
policy  of  the  house  of  Yalois,  and  adorned  so  splendidly  by 
the  pride  of  Louis  the  Great. 

Is  this  a romance?  Or  is  it  a faithful  picture  of  what 
has  lately  been  in  a neighboring  land — of  what  may  shortly 
be,  within  the  borders  of  our  own  ? Has  the  warning  been 
given  in  vain  ? Have  our  Mannerses  and  Clintons  so  soon 
forgotten  the  fate  of  houses  as  wealthy  and  as  noble  as  their 
own  ? Have  they  forgotten  how  the  tender  and  delicate 
woman, — the  woman  who  would  not  set  her  foot  on  the 
earth  for  tenderness  and  delicateness,  the  idol  of  gilded 
drawing-rooms,  the  pole-star  of  crowded  theatres,  the  stan- 
dard of  beauty,  the  arbitress  of  fashion,  the  patroness  of 
genius, — was  compelled  to  exchange  her  luxurious  and  dig- 
nified ease  for  labor  and  dependence,  the  sighs  of  Dukes 
and  the  -flattery  of  bowing  Abbes  for  the  insults  of  rude 
pupils  and  exacting  mothers ; — perhaps,  even  to  draw  an 
infamous  and  miserable  subsistence  from  those  charms  which 
had  been  the  glory  of  royal  circles — to  sell  for  a morsel  of 
bread  her  reluctant  caresses  and  her  haggard  smiles — to  be 
turned  over  from  a garret  to  a hospital,  and  from  a hospital 
to  a parish  vault  ? Have  they  forgotten  how  the  gallant 
and  luxurious  nobleman,  sprung  from  illustrious  ancestors, 
marked  out  from  his  cradle  for  the  highest  honors  of  the 
State,  and  of  the  army,  impatient  of  all  control,  exquisitely 
sensible  of  the  slightest  affront,  with  all  his  high  spirit,  hia 
polished  manners,  his  yojuptuous  habits,  was  reduced  to  re? 


804  macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

3uest,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  credit  for  half  a crown, — to  pass 
ay  after  day  in  hearing  the  auxiliary  verbs  mis-recited,  or 
the  first  page  of  Telemaque  misconstrued  by  petulant  boys^ 
who  infested  him  with  nicknames  and  caricatures,  who  mim- 
icked his  foreign  accent,  and  laughed  at  his  threadbare 
coat  ? Have  they  forgotten  all  this  ? God  grant  that  they 
may  never  remember  it  with  unavailing  self-accusation,  when 
desolation  shall  have  visited  wealthier  cities  and  fairer  gar- 
dens ; — when  Manchester  shall  be  as  Lyons,  and  StoTve  as 
Chantilly  ; when  he  who  now,  in  the  pride  of  rank  and 
opulence,  sneers  at  what  we  have  written  in  the  bitter  sin- 
cerity of  our  hearts,  shall  be  thankful  for  a porringer  of 
broth  at  the  door  of  some  Spanish  convent,  or  shall  implore 
some  Italian  money-lender  to  advance  another  pistole  on  his 
George  ? 


SPEECH 

ON  HI8  INSTALLATION  AS  LORD  RECTOR  OF  THE  UNIVEI*. 

SITY  OF  GLASGOW. 

[March  21,  1849.] 

My  first  duty,  gentlemen,  is  to  return  you  my  thanks  fotf 
the  high  honor  you  have  conferred  on  me.  That  honor,  as 
you  well  know,  was  wholly  unsolicited,  and  I can  assure  you 
it  was  wholly  unexpected.  I may  add,  that  if  I had  been 
invited  to  become  a candidate  for  your  suffrages,  I should 
have  respectfully  declined  the  invitation.  My  predecessor, 
whom  I am  so  happy  as  to  be  able  to  call  my  friend — de- 
clared from  this  place  last  year,  in  language  which  well 
became  him,  that  he  would  not  have  come  forward  to  dis- 
place so  eminent  a statesman  as  Lord  JohiiiRussell.  I can 
with  equal  truth  declare  that  I would  not  have  come  forward 
to  displace  so  estimable  a gentleman  and  so  accomplished  a 
man  as  Colonel  Mure.  But  he  felt  last  year  that  it  was  not 
for  him,  and  I feel  this  year  that  it  is  not  for  me,  to  question 
the  propriety  of  your  decision,  in  a point  on  which,  by  the 
constitution  of  your  body,  you  are  the  sole  judges.  I there- 
fore accept  with  thankf  uine&s  the  office  to  wliiph  J am  called. 


SPEECH. 


805 


fully  purposing  to  use  whatever  powers  belong  to  it  with  the 
single  view  of  the  promotion  of  the  credit  and  the  welfare 
of  this  university. 

I am  not  using  a mere  phrase,  of  course,  when  I say  that 
the  feelings  with  which  I bear  a part  in  the  ceremony  of  this 
day,  are  such  as  I find  it  difficult  to  utter  in  words.  I do 
not  think  it  strange,  that  when  that  great  master  of  elo- 
quence, Edmund  Burke,  stood  where  I now  stand,  ho  fal- 
tered and  remained  mute.  Doubtless  the  multitude  of 
thoughts  which  rushed  into  his  mind  were  such  as  even  ho 
could  not  easily  arrange  or  express.  In  truth,  there  are  few 
spectacles  more  striking  or  affecting,  than  that  which  a 
great  historical  place  of  education  presents  on  a solemn 
public  day. 

There  is  something  strangely  interesting  in  the  contrast 
between  the  venerable  antiquity  of  the  body  and  the  fresh 
and  ardent  youth  of  the  great  majority  of  the  members. 
Recollections  and  hopes  crowd  upon  us  together.  The  past 
and  the  future  are  at  once  brought  close  to  us.  Our  thoughts 
wander  back  to  the  time  when  the  foundations  of  this 
ancient  building  were  laid,  and  forward  to  the  time  when 
those  whom  it  is  our  office  to  guide  and  to  teach  will  be  the 
guides  and  teachers  of  our  posterity.  On  the  present  occa- 
sion we  may,  with  peculiar  propriety,  give  such  thoughts 
their  course.  For  it  has  chanced  that  my  magistracy  has 
fallen  in  a great  secular  epoch.  This  is  the  four  hundredth 
year  of  the  existence  of  your  university.  At  such  jubilees 
as  these — jubilees  of  which  no  individual  sees  more  than 
one — it  is  natural,  it  is  good,  that  a society  like  this — a 
society  which  survives  all  the  transitory  parts  of  which  it  is 
composed — a society  which  has  a corporate  existence  and  a 
perpetual  succession,  should  review  its  annals,  should  retrace 
the  stages  of  its  growth,  from  infancy  to  maturity,  and 
should  try  to  find  in  the  experience  of  generations  which 
have  passed  away,  lessons  which  may  be  profitable  to  gener- 
ations yet  unborn.  The  retrospect  is  full  of  interest  and 
instruction. 

Perhaps  it  may  be  doubted  whether,  since  the  Christian 
era,  there  has  been  any  point  of  time  more  important  to  the 
highest  interests  of  mankind  than  that  at  which  the  exist- 
ence of  your  university  commenced.  It  was  the  moment  of 
a great  destruction  and  of  a great  creation.  Your  society 
was  instituted  just  before  the  empire  of  the  east  perished — • 
that  # strange  empire,  which,  dragging  on  a languid  life 


606  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

through  the  great  age  of  darkness,  connected  together  the 
two  great  ages  of  light — that  empire  which,  adding  nothing 
to  our  stores  of  knowledge,  and  producing  not  one  man 
great  in  letters,  in  science,  or  in  art,  yet  preserved,  in  the 
midst  of  barbarism,  those  masterpieces  of  Attic  genius 
which  the  highest  minds  still  contemplate,  and  long  will 
contemplate,  with  admiring  despair ; and,  at  that  very  time, 
while  the  fanatical  Moslem  were  plundering  the  churches 
and  palaces  of  Constantinople,  breaking  in  pieces  Grecian 
sculpture,  and  giving  to  the  flames  piles  of  Grecian  eloquence, 
a few  humble  German  artisans,  who  little  knew  that  they 
were  calling  into  existence  a power  far  mightier  than  that 
of  the  victorious  sultan,  were  busied  in  cutting  and  setting 
the  first  types.  The  university  came-  into  existence  just  in 
time  to  see  the  last  trace  of  the  Roman  empire  disappear, 
and  to  see  the  earliest  printed  book. 

At  this  conjuncture — a conjuncture  of  unrivalled  interest 
in  the  history  of  letters — a man  never  to  be  mentioned  with- 
out reverence  by  every  lover  of  letters,  held  the  highest  place 
in  Europe.  Our  just  attachment  to  that  Protestant  faith 
to  which  our  country  owes  so  much,  must  not  prevent  us 
from  paying  the  tribute  which,  on  this  occasion  and  in  this 
place,  justice  and  gratitude  demand  to  the  founder  of  the 
University  of  Glasgow,  the  greatest  of  the  revivers  of  learn- 
ing, Pope  Nicholas  the  Fifth.  He  had  sprung  from  the  com- 
mon people ; but  his  abilities  and  his  erudition  had  early  at- 
tracted the  notice  of  the  great.  He  had  studied  much  and 
travelled  far.  He  had  visited  Great  Britain,  which,  in 
wealth  and  refinement,  was  to  his  native  Tuscany  wPat  the 
back  settlements  of  America  now  are  to  Britain.  He  had 
lived  with  the  merchant  princes  of  Florence,  those  men 
who  first  ennobled  trade  by  making  trade  the  ally  of  philos- 
ophy, of  eloquence,  and  of  taste.  It  was  he  who,  under  the 
protection  of  the  munificent  and  discerning  Cosmo,  arrayed 
tho  first  public  library  that  modern  Europe  possessed. 
From  privacy  your  founder  rose  to  a throne;  but  on  the 
throne  he  never  forgot  the  studies  which  had  been  his  de- 
light in  privacy.  He  was  the  centre  of  an  illustrious  group, 
composed  partly  of  the  last  great  scholars  of  Greece  and 
partly  of  the  first  great  scholars  of  Italy,  Theodore  Gaza  and 
George  of  Trebizond,  Bessann  and  Tilelfo,  Marsilio  Ficino 
and  Poggio  Bracciolini.  By  him  was  founded  the  Vatican 
library,  then  and  long  after  the  most  precious  and  the  most 
extensive  collection  of  books  in  the  world.  By  him  were 


SPEECH. 


807 


carefully  preserved  the  most  valuable  intellectual  treasures 
which  had  been  snatched  from  the  wreck  of  the  Byzantine 
empire.  His  agents  were  to  be  found  everywhere — in  the 
bazaars  of  the  farthest  East,  in  the  monasteries  of  the  far- 
thest W est — purchasing  or  copying  worm-eaten  parchments, 
on  which  were  traced  words  worthy  of  immortality.  Under 
his  patronage  were  prepared  accurate  Latin  versions  of  many 
precious  remains  of  Greek  poets  and  philosophers.  But  no 
department  of  literature  owes  so  much  to  him  as  history. 
By  him  were  introduced  to  the  knowledge  of  Western  Eu- 
rope, two  great  and  unrivalled  models  of  historical  composi- 
tio  i,  the  work  of  Herodotus  and  the  work  of  Thucydides. 
By  him,  too,  our  ancestors  were  first  made  acquainted  with 
the  graceful  and  lucid  simplicity  of  Xenophon,  and  with  the 
manly  good  sense  of  Polybius. 

It  was  while  he  was  occupied  with  cares  like  these  that 
his  attention  was  called  to  the  intellectual  wants  of  this 
region — a region  now  swarming  with  population,  rich  with 
culture,  and  resounding  with  the  clang  of  machinery — a 
region  which  now  sends  forth  fleets  laden  with  its  admira- 
ble fabrics  to  lands  of  which,  in  his  days,  no  geographer 
had  ever  heard — then  a wild,  a poor,  a half-barbarous  tract, 
lying  in  the  utmost  verge  of  the  known  world.  He  gave  his 
sanction  to  the  plan  of  establishing  a University  at  Glasgow, 
and  bestowed  on  the  new  seat  of  learning  all  the  privileges 
which  belonged  to  the  University  of  Bologna.  I can  con- 
ceive that  a pitying  smile  passed  over  his  face  as  he  named 
Bologna  and  Glasgow  together.  At  Bologna  he  had  long 
studied.  No  spot  in  the  world  has  been  more  favored  by 
nature  or  by  art.  The  surrounding  country  was  a fruitful 
and  sunny  country,  a country  of  corn-fields  and  vineyards. 
In  the  city  the  house  of  Bentivoglio  bore  rule — a house 
which  vied  with  the  Medici  in  taste  and  magnificence — 
which  has  left  to  posterity  noble  palaces  and  temples,  and 
which  gave  a splendid  patronage  to  arts  and  sciences. 

Glasgow  he  knew  to  be  a poor,  a small,  a rude  town,  and, 
as  he  would  have  thought,  not  likely  ever  to  be  otherwise ; 
for  the  soil,  compared  with  the  rich  country  at  the  foot  of 
the  Apennines,  was  barren,  and  the  climate  was  such  that 
an  Italian  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  it.  But  it  is  not  on 
the  fertility  of  the  soil — it  is  not  on  the  mildness  of  the  at- 
mosphere that  the  prosperity  of  nations  chiefly  depends. 
Slavery  and  superstition  can  make  Campania  a land  of  beg- 
gars, and  can  change  the  plain  of  Enna  into  a desert.  Noi 


808  MACATTLAY5S  MTSOEFLAKEOtTS  WHtTmGS. 

is  it  beyond  the  power  of  human  intelligence  and  energy, 
developed  by  civil  and  spiritual  freedom,  to  turn  sterile 
rocks  and  pestilential  marshes  into  cities  and  gardens.  En- 
lightened as  your  founder  was,  he  little  knew  that  he  was 
himself  a chief  agent  in  a great  revolution — physical  and 
moral,  political  and  religious — in  a revolution  .destined  to 
make  the  last  first,  and  the  first  last — in  a revolution  des- 
tined to  invirt  the  relative  positions  of  Glasgow  and  Bologna. 
We  cannot,  I think,  better  employ  a few  minutes  than  in  re- 
viewing  the  stages  of  this  great  change  in  human  affairs. 
The  review  shall  be  short.  Indeed,  I cannot  do  better  than 
pass  rapidly  from  century  to  century.  Look  at  the  world, 
then  a hundred  years  after  the  seal  of  Nicholas  had  been 
affixed  to  the  instrument  which  called  your  college  into  ex- 
istence. We  find  Europe — we  find  Scotland  especially,  m 
the  agonies  of  that  great  revolution  which  we  emphatically 
call  the  Reformation. 

The  liberal  patronage  which  Nicholas,  and  men  like 
Nicholas,  had  given  to  learning,  and  of  which  the  establish- 
ment of  this  seat  of  learning  is  not  the  least  remarkable 
instance,  had  produced  an  effect  which  they  had  never  con- 
templated. Ignorance  was  the  talisman  on  which  their 
power  depended,  and  that  talisman  they  had  themselves 
broken.  They  had  called  m knowledge  as  a handmaid  to 
decorate  superstition,  and  their  error  produced  its  natural 
effect.  I need  not  tell  you  what  a part  the  votaries  of 
classical  learning,  and  especially  of  Greek  learning,  the 
Humanists,  as  they  weie  then  called,  bore  m the  great 
movement  against  spiritual  tyranny.  In  the  Scotch  Uni- 
versity, I need  hardly  mention  the  names  of  Knox,  of 
Buchanan,  of  Melville,  of  Maitland,  of  Lethingtoil.  They 
formed,  in  fact,  the  vanguard  of  that  movement.  Every 
one  of  the  chief  reformers — I do  not  at  this  moment  remem- 
ber a single  exception — was  a Humanist.  Every  eminent 
Humanist  in  the  north  of  Europe  was,  according  to  tho 
measure  of  his  uprightness  and  courage,  a reformer.  In 
truth,  minds  daily  nourished  with  the  best  literature  of 
Greece  and  Rome,  necessarily  grew  too  strong  to  be  tram- 
melled by  the  cobwebs  of  the  scholastic  divinity;  and  the 
influence  oi  such  minds  was  now  rapidly  felt  by  the  whole 
community;  for  the  invention  of  printing  had  brought  books 
within  the  reach  even  of  yeomen  and  of  artisans. 

From  the  Mediterranean  to  the  Frozen  Sea,  therefore, 
the  public  mind  was  everywhere  in  a ferment,  and  nowhere 


tKSt’At.t.ATTO^r  SffiBCH. 


809 


Was  the  ferment  greater  than  in  Scotland.  It  was  in  the 
midst  of  martyrdoms  and  proscriptions,  in  the  midst  of  a 
war  between  power  and  truth,  that  the  first  century  of  the 
existence  of  your  University  closed.  Pass  another  hundred 
years,  and  we  are  in  the  midst  of  another  revolution.  The 
war  between  Popery  and  Protestantism  had,  in  this  island, 
been  terminated  by  the  victory  of  Protestantism.  But  from 
that  war  another  war  had  sprung — the  war  between  Prelacy 
and  Puritanism.  The  hostile  religious  sects  were  allied, 
intermingled,  confounded  with  hostile  political  parties.  The 
monarchical  element  of  the  constitution  was  an  object  of 
almost  exclusive  devotion  to  the  prelatist.  The  popular 
element  of  the  constitution  was  especially  dear  to  the  Puri- 
tan. At  length  an  appeal  was  made  to  the  sword.  Puri- 
tanism triumphed ; but  Puritanism  was  already  divided 
against  itself.  Independency  and  republicanism  were  on 
one  side,  presbyterianism  and  limited  monarchy  on  the 
other.  It  was  in  the  very  darkest  part  of  that  dark  time — 
it  was  in  the  midst  of  battles,  sieges,  and  executions — it 
was  when  the  whole  world  was  still  aghast  at  the  awful 
spectacle  of  a British  king  standing  before  a judgment  seat, 
and  laying  his  neck  on  a block — it  was  when  the  mangled 
remains  of  the  Duke  of  Hamilton  had  just  been  laid  in  the 
tomb  of  his  house — it  was  when  the  head  of  the  Marquis  of 
Montrose  had  just  been  fixed  on  the  Tolbooth  of  Edinburgh, 
that  your  University  completed  her  second  century! 

A hundred  years  more,  and  we  have  at  length  reached 
tbe  beginning  of  a happier  period.  Our  civil  and  religious 
liberties  had,  indeed,  been  bought  with  a fearful  price.  But 
they  had  been  bought.  The  price  had  been  paid.  The  last 
battle  had  been  fought  on  British  ground.  The  last  black 
scaffold  had  been  set  up  on  Tower  Hill.  The  evil  days  were 
over.  A bright  and  tranquil  century — a century  of  religious 
toleration,  of  domestic  peace,  of  temperate  freedom,  of  equal 
Justice  — was  beginning.  That  century  is  now  closing. 
When  we  compare  it  with  an  equally  long  period  in  the 
history  of  any  other  great  society,  we  shall  find  abundant 
cause  for  thankfulness  to  the  Giver  of  all  Good  ; nor  is  there 
any  place  in  the  whole  kingdom  better  fitted  to  excite  this 
feeling  than  the  place  where  we  are  now  assembled.  For  in 
the  whole  kingdom  we  shall  find  no  district  in  which  the 
progress  of  trade,  of  manufactures,  of  wealth,  and  of  the 
arts  of  life,  has  been  more  rapid  than  in  Clydesdale.  Your 
University  has  partaken  largely  of  the  prosperity  of  the  city 
and  of  the  surrounding  region,  . _ ..... 


810  MACAULAY*S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS. 

The  security,  the  tranquillity,  the  liberty,  which  have 
been  propitious  to  the  industry  of  the  merchant  and  of  the 
manufacturer,  have  been  also  propitious  to  the  industry  of 
the  scholar.  To  the  last  century  belong  most  of  the  names 
of  which  you  justly  boast.  The  time  would  fail  me  if  I 
attempted  to  do  justice  to  the  memory  of  all  the  illustrious 
men,  who,  during  that  period,  taught  or  learned  wisdom, 
within  these  ancient  walls — geometricians,  anatomists,  jur- 
ists, philologists,  metaphysicians,  poets — Simpson  and  Hun- 
ter, Miller  and  Young,  Reid  and  Stewart ; Campbell — whose 
coffin  was  lately  borne  to  a grave  in  that  renowned  transept 
which  contains  the  dust  of  Chaucer,  of  Spenser,  and  of 
Dryden  ; Black,  whose  discoveries  form  an  era  in  the  his- 
tory of  chemical  science  ; Adam  Smith,  the  greatest  of  all 
the  masters  of  political  science  ; James  Watt,  who  perhaps 
did  more  than  any  single  man  has  done  since  the  new 
Atlantis  of  Bacon  was  written,  to  accomplish  the  glorious 
prophecy. 

We  now  speak  the  language  of  humility  when  we  say 
that  the  University  of  Glasgow  need  not  fear  a comparison 
with  the  University  of  Bologna.  Another  secular  period  is 
now  about  to  commence.  There  is  no  lack  of  alarmists,  who 
will  tell  you  that  it  is  about  to  commence  under  evil  au- 
spices. But  from  me  you  must  expect  no  such  gloomy  prog- 
nostications. I am  too  much  used  to  them  to  be  scared  by 
them.  Ever  since  I began  to  make  observations  on  the  state 
of  my  country  I have  been  seeing  nothing  but  growth,  and 
I have  been  hearing  nothing  but  decay.  The  more  I con- 
template our  noble  institutions,  the  more  convinced  I am 
that  they  are  sound  at  heart,  that  they  have  nothing  of  age 
but  its  dignity,  and  that  their  strength  is  still  the  strength 
of  youth.  The  hurricane  which  has  recently  overthrown  so 
much  that  was  great  and  that  seemed  durable,  has  only 
proved  their  solidity.  They  still  stand,  august  and  immov- 
able, while  dynasties  and  churches  are  lying  in  heaps  of  ruin 
all  around  us.  I see  no  reason  to  doubt  that,  by  the  blessing 
of  God  on  a wise  and  temperate  policy,  on  a policy  in  which 
the  principle  is  to  preserve  what  is  good  by  reforming  in 
time  what  is  evil,  our  civil  institutions  may  be  preserved  un- 
impaired to  a late  posterity,  and  that,  under  the  shade  of 
civil  institutions,  our  academical  institutions  may  long  con- 
tinue to  flourish. 

I trust,  therefore,  that  when  a hundred  years  more  have 
run  out,  this  ancient  college  will  still  continue  to  deserve 


INSTALLATION’  SPEECH. 


811 


well  of  our  country  and  of  mankind.  I trust  that  the  in- 
stallation of  1949  will  be  attended  by  a still  greater  assembly 
of  students  than  I have  the  happiness  now  to  see  before  me. 
The  assemblage  indeed  may  not  meet  in  the  place  where  we 
have  met.  These  venerable  halls  may  have  disappeared. 
My  successor  may  speak  to  your  successors  in  a more  stately 
Ddifice,  in  an  edifice  which,  even  among  the  magnificent 
buildings  of  the  future  Glasgow,  will  still  be  admired  as  a 
fine  specimen  of  architecture  which  flourished  in  the  days  of 
the  good  ^ueen  Victoria.  But  though  the  site  and  the  walls 
may  be  new,  the  spirit  of  the  institution  will,  I hope,  be 
still  the  same.  My  successor  will,  I hope,  be  able  to  boast 
that  the  fifth  century  of  the  University  has  been  even  more 
glorious  than  the  fourth.  He  will  be  able  to  vindicate  that 
boast,  by  citing  a long  list  of  eminent  men,  great  masters  of 
experimental  science,  of  ancient  learning,  of  our  native 
eloquence,  ornaments  of  the  senate,  the  pulpit,  and  the  bar. 

He  will,  I hope,  mention  with  high  honor  some  of  my 
young  friends  who  now  hear  me  ; and  he  will,  I also  hope, 
be  able  to  add  that  their  talents  and  learning  were  not 
wasted  on  selfish  or  ignoble  objects,  but  were  employed  to 
promote  the  physical  and  moral  good  of  their  species,  to 
extend  the  empire  of  man  over  the  material  world,  to  defend 
the  cause  of  civil  and  religious  liberty  against  tyrants  and 
bigots,  and  to  defend  the  cause  of  virtue  and  order  against 
the  enemies  of  all  divine  and  human  laws.  I have  now 
given  utterance  to  a part,  and  a part  only,  of  the  recollec- 
tions and  anticipations  of  which  on  this  solemn  occasion  my 
mind  is  full.  I again  thank  you  for  the  honor  which  you 
have  bestowed  on  me  ; and  I assure  you  that  while  I live  I 
shad  never  cease  to  take  a deep  interest  in  the  welfare  and 
fame  of  the  body  with  which,  by  your  kindness,  I have  this 
day  become  connected. 


MACAULAY’S  MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS* 


Si* 


SPEECH 

ON  RETIRING  FROM  POLITICAL  LIFE. 

(March  22,  1849.) 

I ihank  you,  my  Lord  Provost — gentlemen,  I thank  yon 
from  my  heart  for  this  great  honor.  * I may,  I hope, 
extend  my  thanks  further — extend  them  to  that  constituent 
body,  of  which  I believe  you  are,  upon  this  occasion,  the  ex- 
positors— and  which  has  received  me  herein  a manner  which 
has  made  an  impression  never  to  be  effaced  from  my  mind. 
[Alluding  to  the  box  containing  the  document,  verifying  his 
admission  as  a freeman,  he  continued  :]  That  box,  my  lord, 
I shall  prize  as  long  as  I live,  and  when  I am  gone,  it  will 
be  appreciated  by  those  who  are  dearest  to  me,  as  a proof 
that  in  the  course  of  an  active  and  chequered  life,  both  political 
and  literary,  I succeeded  in  gaining  the  esteem  and  good 
will  of  the  people  of  one  of  the  greatest  and  most  enlightened 
cities  in  the  British  empire.  My  political  life,  my  lord,  has 
closed.  The  feelings  which  contention  and  rivalry  naturally 
called  forth,  and  from  which  I do  not  pretend  to  have  been 
exempted,  have  had  time  to  cool  down.  I can  look  now 
upon  the  events  in  which  I bore  a part,  as  calmly,  I think, 
as  on  the  events  of  the  past  century.  I can  do  that  justice 
now  to  honorable  opponents  which  perhaps  in  moments  of 
conflict  I might  have  refused  to  them. 

I believe  I can  judge  an  impartially  of  my  own  career,  as 
I can  judge  of  the  career  of  another  man.  I acknowledge 
great  errors  and  deficiencies,  but  I have  nothing  to  acknowl- 
edge inconsistent  with  rectitude  ef  intention  and  independ- 
ence of  spirit.  My  conscience  bea*\s  me  this  testimony,  that 
I have  honestly  desired  the  happiness,  the  prosperity,  and 
the  greatness  of  my  country  ; that  my  course,  right  or  wrong, 
was  never  determined  by  any  selfish  or  sordid  motive,  and 
that,  in  troubled  times  and  through  many  vicissitudes  of 
fortune,  in  power  and  out  of  power,  through  popularity  and 
unpopularity,  I have  been  faithful  to  one  set  of  opinions, 
and  to  one  set  of  friends.  I see  no  reason  to  doubt  that 


• The  tender  of  the  freedom  of  the  city  of  Glasgow» 


ON  RETIRING  FROM  POLITICAL  AFFAIRS.  813 

these  friends  were  well  chosen,  or  that  these  opinions  tvere 
in  the  main  correct. 

The  path  of  duty  appeared  to  me  to  he  between  two 
dangerous  extremes — extremes  which  I shall  call  equally 
dangerous,  seeing  that  each  of  them  inevitably  conducts 
society  to  the  other,  I cannot  accuse  myself  of  having  ever 
deviated  far  towards  either.  I cannot  accuse  myself  of 
having  ever  been  untrue,  either  to  the  cause  of  civil  or  re- 
ligious liberty,  or  to  the  cause  of  property  and  law.  I reflect 
with  pleasure  that  I bore  a part  in  some  of  those  reforms 
which  corrected  great  abuses,  and  removed  just  discontents. 
I reflect,  with  equal  pleasure,  that  I never  stooped  to  the 
part  of  a demagogue,  and  never  feared  to  confront  what 
seemed  to  me  to  be  an  unreasonable  clamor.  I never  in 
time  of  distress  incited  my  countrymen  to  demand  of  any 

fovernment,  to  which  I was  opposed,  miracles — that  which 
well  knew  no  government  could  perform  ; nor  did  I seek 
even  the  redress  of  grievances,  which  it  was  the  duty  of  a 
government  to  redress,  by  any  other  than  strictly  peaceful 
and  legal  means. 

Such  were  the  principles  upon  which  I acted,  and  such 
would  have  been  my  principles  still.  The  events  which  have 
lately  changed  the  face  of  Europe,  have  only  confirmed  my 
views  of  what  public  duty  requires.  These  events  are  full 
of  important  lessons,  both  to  the  governors  and  the  governed ; 
and  he  learns  only  half  the  lesson  they  ought  to  teach,  who 
sees  in  them  only  a warning  against  tyranny  on  the  one 
hand,  and  anarchy  on  the  other.  The  great  lesson  which 
these  events  teach  us  is  that  tyranny  and  anarchy  are  insep- 
arably connected ; that  each  is  the  parent,  and  each  is  the 
offspring  of  the  other.  The  lesson  which  they  teach  is  this 
— that  old  institutions  have  no  more  deadly  enemy  than  the 
bigot  who  refuses  to  adjust  them  to  a new  state  of  society  ; 
nor  do  they  teach  us  less  clearly  this  lesson,  that  the  sover- 
eignty of  the  mob  leads  by  no  long  or  circuitous  path  to 
the  sovereignty  of  the  sword.  I bless  God  that  my  country 
has  escaped  both  these  errors. 

Those  statesmen  who,  eighteen  years  before,  proposed  to 
transfer  to  this  great  city  and  to  cities  like  this,  a political 
power  which  but  belonged  to  hamlets  which  contained  only 
a few  scores  of  inhabitants,  or  to  old  walls  with  no  inhabi- 
tants at  all — these"  statesman,  and  I may  include . myself 
among  them,  were  then  called  anarchists  and  revolutionists  ; 
but  let  those  who  so  called  us3  now  say  whether  we  are  not 


814  Macaulay’s  miscellaneous  writings. 

the  true  and  the  far-sighted  friends  of  order  ? Let  those 
who  so  called  us,  now  say  how  would  they  have  wished  to 
encounter  the  tempest  of  the  last  spring  with  the  abuses  of 
Old  Sarum  and  Gatton  to  defend — with  Glasgow  only  rep- 
resented in  name,  and  Manchester  and  Leeds  not  even  in 
name.  We  then  were  not  only  the  true  friends  of  liberty, 
but  the  true  friends  of  order  : and  in  the  same  manner  aided 
by  all  the  vigorous  exertions  by  which  the  government 
(aided  by  patriotic  magistrates  and  honest  men)  put  down, 
a year  ago,  those  marauders  who  wished  to  subvert  all  society 
— these  exertions,  I say,  were  of  inestimable  service,  not 
only  to  the  cause  of  order,  but  also  to  the  cause  of  true 
liberty. 

But  I am  now  speaking  the  sentiments  of  a private  man. 
T have  quitted  politics — I quitted  them  without  one  feeling 
of  resentment,  without  one  feeling  of  regret,  and  betook  myself 
to  pursuits  for  which  my  temper  and  my  tastes,  I believe, 
fitted  me  better.  I would  not  willingly  believe  that  in  ceas- 
ing to  be  a politician  I relinquish  altogether  the  power 
of  rendering  any  service  to  my  country.  I hope  it  may 
still  be  in  my  power  to  teach  lessons  which  may  be  profitable 
to  those  who  still  remain  on  the  busy  stage  which  I have 
left.  I hope  that  it  may  still  be  in  my  power  so  faithfully, 
without  fear  or  malignity,  to  represent  the  merits  and  faults 
of  hostile  sects  and  factions,  as  to  teach  a common  lesson 
of  charity  to  all.  I hope  it  will  be  in  my  power  to  inspire, 
at  least,  some  of  my  countrymen  with  love  and  reverence 
ior  those  free  and  noble  institutions  to  which  Britain  owes 
her  greatness,  and  from  which,  I trust,  she  is  not  destined 
60on  to  descend. 

I shall  now,  encouraged  by  your  approbation,  resume, 
with  alacrity,  a task,  under  the  magnitude  and  importance 
of  which  I have  sometimes  felt  my  mind  ready  to  sink.  I 
thank  you  again,  most  cordially,  for  your  kindness.  I value, 
as  it  deserves,  the  honor  of  being  enrolled  in  your  number. 
I Lave  seen  with  delight  and  with  pride,  the  extent,  the 
grandeur,  the  beauty,  and  the  opulence  of  this  noble  city — * 
a city  which  I may  now  call  mine.  With  every  wish  for 
the  prosperity,  the  peace,  and  the  honor  of  our  fair  and  ma- 
jestic Glasgow,  I now  bid  you,  my  kind  friends  six 1 fellow* 
citizens,  a most  respectful  farewell. 


1(14253 


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